


California Loving

by alienlover13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, America, Anal Sex, Angst, Aurors, Baseball, California, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, English, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Muggle Life, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Slash, Slow Burn, Switching, Travel, University, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienlover13/pseuds/alienlover13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear God, this could not be happening. Draco Malfoy could simply not be standing in front of him a year after the War, in fucking <i>California</i>, dressed in short shorts and working for a muggle youth baseball organization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of the Innocence

Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

Life as Draco knew it was over once the wizarding war came to a close. Draco had only acted in accordance with the Dark Lord for a short amount of time, but it damned him for life in the post-war magical community. Though former Death Eaters received fair trials under new Ministry leadership, laws were passed that enacted a heavy set of restrictions on wizards and witches who had supported or sympathized with Voldemort.

Draco avoided Azkaban, fulfilling his sentence by paying a hefty fine and doing a year’s worth of community service, but was regarded with derision and contempt regardless of his fantastic NEWT scores. He had accepted the offer to return to Hogwarts and finish out his education, studying harder than ever before. However, his opportunities were limited because of the laws and he even found it increasingly difficult to go out in public.

People such as Draco were being treated worse and worse as the Ministry continued to produce laws that discriminated against former Death Eaters. These were a distinct set of rules that all fell under the “Future Promise” set of legislation. Everyone had their sights set upon a new world, but seemed unconcerned with true reformation.

Draco contended with several of the new rule on an everyday basis: he had to adhere to a 10pm curfew; he could not be hired as an Auror, Healer, or Ministry official or employee; and business owners were allowed to refrain from allowing him into their establishments, even to make purchases. There had been talk of a new bill that would restrict the magical ability of former Death Eaters to a fifth-year level. Draco wouldn’t have been able to even Apparate then.

Lucius was still in Azkaban for his crimes, a situation to which Draco was indifferent. Without his father’s influence, he could have avoided years’ worth of suffering. He would have never joined the Dark Lord out of his own inclination. Draco reluctantly admitted that Lucius was his father, but refused to allow him to play any role in the decisions he made now or would make after Lucius was released.

Draco’s feelings for Narcissa were a lot clearer: he had always loved her, and would continue to do so. She fought long and hard with her sister Andromeda to apologize for the choices she made in the past, and finally ‘Dromeda accepted, resulting in a shaky reconciliation. Narcissa had vacated the Manor right after the war ended, having decided to accept ‘Dromeda’s offer for her to move in and help raise little Teddy Lupin.

Draco could not accompany his mother, even if he wanted to. It wasn’t because ‘Dromeda believed he was evil, but because of Future Promise Proclamation #65: “Those formerly affiliated with You-Know-Who shall not, under any circumstances, be allowed to share a residence with minors under the legal age, unless the child in question is their biological son or daughter.”

Draco was stung by the law, but he wasn’t ready to dedicate his life to childcare anyway. Draco had been content with staying in the Manor for a while, comfortable in the mansion of Malfoy wealth and grandeur. Increasingly, he became tired of the drafty elegance of his surroundings: the Manor was no longer home, especially after all the evil that occurred there. Even more so than past events, Draco could not overlook the fact that the house felt like a prison. With the house elves cooking meals, doing laundry, tidying up, and otherwise running the household, Draco had no reason to leave. And even if he could find one, the harassment he’d occur out in the community was too detrimental for one to bear if not absolutely necessary. He tried to start a small consulting firm, but could find no one who would take his business.

Eventually, Draco not only refused to leave the Manor, he no longer left his room. Narcissa received many worried fire calls from members of the house elf staff, expressing concern for Master Draco and pleas for her to return home and re-energize him. She had quite hoped he would have the drive to conquer the obstacles thrown at him and start a new life as well. Unfortunately, Narcissa’s most trusted elf, Ceeley, Apparated to Northpass on Sunday afternoon and told her that Draco was no longer eating or leaving his bed. Disappointed, she finally arranged a visit to the Malfoy Manor.

Draco lay in bed, twirling the fringe of the Indian silk blanket he’d received for his sixteenth birthday. Though he hadn’t left his bed for the last 3 days, he had not spent much time actually sleeping. He’d been thinking of what options remained for his future. Draco had tried to adapt to the new world by finishing his education, hoping that high NEWT scores would at least allow him to be considered for a range of positions. However, the new laws in place caused Draco to be seen as a second class citizen to most people, including employers. He wasn’t yet sure what he wanted to do as a career, but the only job offer he’d received was to work part-time in a shady dark metals store in Knockturn Alley. He’d refused immediately.

He heard a knock on his door, rising up to shout, “I told you, Ceeley, I’m not coming out! What kind of house elf are you, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to _listen_ to your master?”

Thinking that would be the end of her, Draco slammed back down onto his mattress and pushed his palms against his eyes. His head would not stop pounding. Sure, it may have been a while since he last had some food, but there was no reason for a damn ache that wouldn’t go away. Actually, Draco couldn’t remember what he’d eaten or the last time he’d eaten.

BOOM. Draco jumped, shouting “what the absolute fuck!” as his door flew back on the hinges and slammed into the wall, creating a doorknob sized hole as it penetrated the drywall.

Narcissa sheathed her wand calmly, stepping gracefully into the room. “Hello, Draco,” she breathed, wrinkling her nose from the stagnant odor of her brooding son.

Draco was surprised to see her. With one foot already on the floor, no doubt waiting to stomp over and curse Ceeley into oblivion, he stood staring at his mother with his mouth hanging open and a guilty look on his face.

“I haven’t come to exchange pleasantries, Draco,” Narcissa said coolly, walking over to the windows and flinging open the drapes.

As the warm sunlight hit his face, Draco covered his eyes and moaned darkly to himself. The blinds were opaque enough to keep out unwanted light for the past three days.

For good measure, Narcissa opened the windows as well, letting in the sound of birds chirping and the smell of sweet summer air. “You see, Draco? Life goes on outside of this deathly Manor. Every day, little insignificant creatures are adapting to their new world – unlike you.”

Draco pulled his hands away from his eyes, blinking furiously. He gave his mother a withering glare as he reached over to retrieve a half empty bottle of rum from his nightstand, taking a generous swig.

“What am I going to do with you? What _can_ I do with you?” Narcissa asked, looking futilely at Draco.

“Nothing,” Draco snarled, gray eyes cold as steel. “This ‘new world’ is a sham, a façade. I’m nothing to anyone.” He took another swallow of the rum, grimacing as it slid down.

In an instance, Narcissa had her wand out and waved it severely. The rum bottle snapped out of Draco’s hand and came to a grinding halt in Narcissa’s, and she strangled it. “I’d think I wouldn’t have to stand here and convince you that I love you, but then again, I never thought I’d have a son hell-bent on destroying the only second chance that he was offered, either.”

Draco walked over to stand in front of his mother, gray eyes flashing furiously. “But we all haven’t gotten second chances, Mother! You get to move on with your life; you, who have no restrictions on where you cannot work, live, say, or do! You haven’t got a Mark, Mother!” He thrust his left forearm towards her chest, pulling down his wrinkled white shirt to reveal a faded Dark Mark. Draco never looked down at his own arm, and this time was not any different.

Narcissa looked, though. In a rare gesture of intimacy, she ran her fingers over Draco’s Mark before meeting his eyes. “I know that your path is difficult, son. But I also know that choosing the easy way out only leads to death and destruction. Look at my life, Draco.”

Draco started to argue, but something caused him to look down at Narcissa’s left hand. There was no wedding ring there. Softening, he asked, “So you’re finished with Father, then?”

Narcissa held tightly onto Draco’s still-outstretched hand. “Yes, yes I am. I gave so much of myself to that man; my youth, my family, my values.”

Intrigued, Draco listened to his mother. She had never spoken before of her relationship with Lucius, but he had long suspected she was unhappy in their marriage.

Narcissa continued, “As you’ve so bluntly pointed out, I am no Death Eater. That doesn’t mean I am free of blame, but I have a chance for a new life. I can only wish you can trust in yourself and embrace the unknown as well.”

Draco looked down in shame, again feeling the crushing weight of the Future Promise legislation. He asked, “But how can I bring myself to go out there? Have you kept up with the news? Pansy Parkinson was arrested for disputing the price of a cup of coffee in Diagon Alley the other day.”

Narcissa smiled. “I never said your new life had to exist here where such prejudice and intolerance exists. Draco, I know you were brought up a certain way. With certain ideas about the differences between muggles and wizards…”

Immediately, Draco snatched his hand away from his mother and stepped back. He furiously regained his composure and lashed out at his mother. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Did you not even believe half the things you led me to believe were true?”

“That’s correct,” Narcissa admitted, resigned. “I was content with your father’s wish to bring you up in accordance to his beliefs on, ahem, certain matters.”

“Why?” demanded Draco, boring a hole through Narcissa with his intense gaze.

“I doubted myself,” Narcissa said simply. “He was powerful, wealthy, and intimidating – I thought what he decided would be best. Lucius always made it seem like if we raised you with my beliefs in mind as well, then you wouldn’t turn out as he envisioned you would.”

Draco snorted. If only he’d known what his mother’s beliefs were before the age of 18. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been in this great mess with a not removable faded black mark.

“What’s done is done, Draco,” Narcissa admonished. “We can only move forward. I hope you’ll be open minded enough to consider my beliefs now.”

Draco sighed. She wasn’t making this easy on him, but then again, she never did. “And how would these beliefs of yours have any effect on my current position in society?”

Narcissa smiled in a way that made Draco wish he hadn’t asked. “Funny you should ask that question.”

Knowing he was being dramatic, Draco placed a delicate hand on his forehead, willing his mother not to continue.

She ignored him. “Draco, what if I told you, what I asked you to believe that muggles really aren’t so different than wizards?”

Draco cringed. Though his father was not yet dead, Lucius Malfoy would be rolling in his grave if he heard his wife and son having this conversation. Draco tried to remember that he owed his father no loyalty or allegiance.

“I know it’s going against years’ worth of your father’s hateful rhetoric,” admitted Narcissa, “but are you a good enough man, maybe not even a good enough one, but a desperate enough one, to change your viewpoint on this matter?”

“Really Mother, now even you’re insulting my worth?” asked Draco exasperatedly.

“Perhaps, son, perhaps. You’ve been given this new chance, but do you deserve it?”

“And how exactly would my views on muggles have anything to do with my life?”

Narcissa again met her son’s eyes. “Draco, I know about the Ministry and their Future Promise legislation. I’ve kept up with all the news. I know about how former Death Eaters are being blatantly discriminated against for no reason. And I agree with you – this new world is not one that welcomes you or even tolerates you.”

“Great, so now that we’ve established that, can I have my rum back?”

“Not so fast,” Narcissa chides. “You’re not off the hook. The magical community is all you’ve known. And now because that same community has grown hostile, you feel your life is over.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Life as you know it is over. But that does not mean there is no hope for your future.”

“And where exactly am I going to build a new future? As you’ve pointed out, this is all I’ve ever known.”

“Draco, is it not obvious?” Narcissa said, tinged with sadness. “You’ll have a better chance establishing a new life in the muggle world.”  
Draco’s eyes opened wide in horror, and he started choking, having inhaled the wrong way. “Are you mental?” he gasped in-between coughs. “You think I’d actually have a better chance out there with the muggles? What about my magic? I’d be – I’d lose everything!”

Dryly, Narcissa said, “But haven’t you already lost everything that matters to you? Your reputation is ruined, and except for me, those who believed in you are dead or gone. Our family has fallen apart…” She faltered.

He sighed in a subdued way, determined not to appear weak in front of her. Unconsciously, however his eyes fell and he unknowingly ran a hand through his slick blonde hair, ruffling it.

Narcissa pressed her advantage and took him into her arms. “Draco, a mother will always wish what’s best for her children. I truly believe that this would be a good thing for you. Better than staying holed up in the Manor drinking bloody rum all day,” she adds mischievously.

Draco, who hadn’t properly leaned into his mother’s embrace for years, hugged her back, and for the briefest moment, buried his head into her shoulder. She ran her hand down his back.

“Nothing is permanent, Draco, and maybe this shift won’t have to be. The Ministry might back down to external pressure, if activists start protesting these new ordinances.”

Draco snorts. “Fat chance,” he says, muffled against her robes.

“Think of it as a chance to reinvent yourself,” Narcissa said. “Unless muggles are offended by blond hair, they should have no reason to hate you. You can pursue any field you want.”

Draco considered the possibilities as he remained in his mother’s embrace.

“Become a better man, Draco,” whispered Narcissa. “I never wanted you to be so hateful and violent. Learn how to care for others, and how to love. Not everyone will betray you.”

Draco, in a moment of weakness and shame, said “I’ll try, Mother” and instantly regretted it. Now he would actually have to think about the prospects when his mind wasn’t so warbled.

“Get some rest, son,” Narcissa said, leading Draco back to his bed. He lay down with a thoughtful look upon his face, allowing himself to believe that maybe there was a place where he could exist peacefully with others. As peacefully as any Malfoy can, of course.

Though the sunlight was still brightly shining through the window, Draco closed his eyes and, for once, fell asleep without hesitation. His face was peaceful of he dreamed of a better tomorrow, one where he would not be known as Malfoy the former Death Eater.

 Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ


	2. You're So Pretty When You're Mad

Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

Draco awoke the next morning rather unusually bright and early, though admittedly he had slept through all of last night as well as the previous afternoon. Funnily enough, there was a ghost of a smile on his face, and he could only wonder where it came from and what was causing it. For too long, there hadn’t been any proper reason for Draco to feel happy at all, not even when Celestina Warbeck was slapped with a plagiarism lawsuit.

Even odder was the fact that Draco actually felt motivated enough to get out of bed, something he’d been procrastinating doing for the past 4 days. He stretched, and accidentally caught of whiff of something that smelled less than pleasant. Ugh, what was that? No…there’s no way that was actually his body, was it? Draco reluctantly lifted up his arm again and took a casual sniff of under his armpit, knowing instinctually how undignified such an action was. Yes, it was really him. Good God. A Cleaning Charm was not going to suffice.

Draco walked open to the already open window and pushed it open further, enjoying the sound of birds chirping outside. He undressed, retrieved his towel, and started towards the luxurious shower he’d surely been missing for the better part of a week. Before he could quite make it out of his room, however, Ceeley the house elf was opening his door.

“Ceeley!” Draco shouted out of surprise and fear, yanking his towel quickly around his waist. “What are you doing in here? Why are you even awake so early?” he added, forgetting that the Malfoy house elves were up every day by 6am to begin their elaborate cleaning rituals.

“Mistress Malfoy is having a good effect on Master Draco,” Ceeley noted, walking further into the room with her arms behind her back. Draco could make out something red and shiny hidden behind her thin body. “She asked for her present to Master Draco to be brought this morning, and so Ceeley is bringing it!”

“Mother sent me a gift?” breathed Draco, holding his towel with one hand and pushing his hair back with the other. “What’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday or Christmas…” remembering he’d lost all track of time, Draco added, “at least, I hope it isn’t.”

Ceeley attempted a laugh that sounded more like a painful squeak. “Of course it’s not, Master Draco! Mistress Malfoy always said he’s quite the joker, he is.”

“Give it here, then, Ceeley,” Draco said, anticipation getting the better of him.

“Does Master Draco want Ceeley to fire call Mistress Malfoy with gratitude?” asked the elf, inadvertently reminding Draco to remember his manners.

He frowned. “I think I’d rather wait and see what she’s seen fit to give me before I respond ‘with gratitude.’”

“As Master Draco wishes,” Ceeley conceded, revealing a red, rectangular box that was so pristine it must have been wrapped by magic. “Breakfast is ready in 15 minutes, sir,” she notified, backing out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Draco pounced as soon as the latch clicked, his towel falling away as he tore open the paper. It was, he thought, very anti-climactic. There was no elegant watch or Gobstones set. Instead, the box had a picture of this shiny black and silver _contraption_ , the only word Draco could come up for it. He saw a funny little dial and lever and two metallic slots. What was his mother playing at?

Disgruntled, he swung the box up on his dresser, determined to get to the bottom of what the hell this thing actually was. He brought himself to read the label for the first time, which displayed “Cuisinart 2 Slice Metal Classic Toaster” in large block letters. Draco extracted a vague memory out of the depths of his brain and combined it with the image of toast in a bright picture on the box. Is this a _muggle appliance_? My mother sent a bloody _muggle appliance?!_

Draco released the box and, still nude, sank down to his knees and pulled his forearms up to his face. It was all coming back to him now: his former-Death-Eater status, the memory of days spent in bed, his mother’s visit and entirely unexpected heart to heart, and her endearments for him to pursue a muggle lifestyle. Well, here was proof she hadn’t forgotten. And good God, he’d _promised_ to consider the possibility. What had he been drinking last night? Oh yeah, the rum. Draco vowed to have a nice bonfire that night as he burned every last bottle.

Retrieving his towel, Draco stood up and resolved to deal with the, with the _toaster_ , after he had a nice, refreshing shower. He firmly put all thoughts of bread and rectangular shapes out of his mind and split out of his room for his private bathroom.

Once inside, he made sure to replace his empty bottle of premium shampoo before turning on the water. Except that the water wouldn’t turn on, even as Draco pulled out his wand and attempted to turn the faucet on by magic. His growl of frustration became gradually louder as he tried spell after spell, fantasies of a hot shower evaporating.

“Master Draco?” asked Ceeley tentatively, poking her head in the bathroom door.

Draco didn’t even care she was seeing him naked, because so help him, he needed the shower to work _right now_.

“Ceeley, WHY is the water not working?” he demanded, abandoning the shower and trying the bathroom spigot to no avail.

“Ceeley is sorry, Master Draco,” said the elf, guiltily sticking out her right foot and crossing it over the left. “But there’s been changes, sir, you see. They’s from the Ministry!”

Draco groaned, pitching his designer soap bar across the room where it shattered against the wall, leaving a pale blue lump on the otherwise pristine wall.

“Bring me the paper, would you?” he managed to get out, trying not to take out his anger on the elf.

Ceeley obliged, and fetched Draco that morning’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_. Furiously, he turned to the column near the back of the paper that was added a week after the wizarding war concluded, titled “New and Updated Future Promise Legislation.” And sure enough, there it was: Future Promise #99, decreeing that “…with the current shortages on natural resources, all former Voldemort supporters and/or sympathizers are hereby required to pay no less than 115% of the usual rate.” Draco paid the Manor’s bills through a direct deposit system, where the amount owed each month was simply transferred straight to the Natural Resources department of the Ministry.

The elf was still standing in the doorway, as if waiting for instructions. Draco decided to give her some. “Fire call the Ministry immediately! I’ll have their supervisor’s head when I get down there!”

Draco stomped back into his bedroom and snatched his robe out of the closet, throwing it hastily around himself. He also took care to step into his favorite blue slippers, and then scuffed his way down the hallway and the marble staircase to the main drawing room. Ceeley was waiting for him, her head already immersed in the Malfoy’s massive fireplace.

He waited impatiently with arms folded, tapping his foot. Eventually, she slid back out of the flames. Her face had an expression of dismay, and Draco knew that couldn’t be good.

“Master Draco,” Ceeley stumbled, clasping her hands. “Ceeley is spoken to the assistant in Resources, sir, and…and…sir, check the paper again.”

With a growing dread in his stomach, Draco Accioed the _Prophet_ from upstairs and glanced back down at the Future Promises. There it was, #100, which he’d missed on his last pass through the paper: “Ministry officials and employees shall not conduct business or answer inquiries from former Death Eaters outside of normal business hours.”

Draco’s gray eyes flashed angrily. They weren’t going to turn his water back on because it was _Saturday_?! “Move over, Ceeley,” he said, making a beeline for the fireplace.

She obliged, and Draco plunged his head into the call to the Ministry. A young desk attendant did not look surprised to see him. “I’ve already told your elf, _Mister_ Malfoy, a new piece of legislation was passed, and you can no longer contact the Ministry outside of normal business hours. See the _Prophet_ if you have any further questions.” And Draco was expelled out of the fireplace, coughing in soot, as the attendant unceremoniously ended the call.

“Call – them – back,” said Draco in-between coughs. Ceeley began setting up the call again, and he said, “Ask that miserable sod to arrange the deposits to cover the new amount.”

Ceeley was in the fire for far too long, and Draco knew it wasn’t going well. Sure enough, when she ended the call, “Master Draco, they says that a house elf can’t complete the transaction.”

Glowering, Draco was at a loss for words. His own house elf could talk to the Ministry on Saturday when he very well couldn’t, but even she wasn’t able to do business with those sodding _bastards_. It looked like there would be no water or anything else that required the use of natural resources until Monday. And he hadn’t even resigned himself to having to pay 15% more than everyone else for the same services. Weren’t the reparations he paid after his trial enough? What were they bloody well trying to reduce him to?

Draco was now fed up, with the traces of a headache building up at his temple in addition to being so smelly that even Ceeley had slowly drifted away into the other room.  There was only one thing left to do.

He spun on the spot to Apparate to Northpass, and then remembered that under Future Promise #15, he had to give the Ministry at least 30 minutes’ notification before Apparating, and could only Floo to pre-approved destinations. At least he’d had the sense to file all the necessary paperwork as to Floo to every grate he could think of, and only been denied for two of them. But how exactly was he supposed to notify the Ministry about Apparation if he could no longer contact them? His headache worsened.

After running upstairs to grab all the necessary shower supplies, Draco stepped into the fireplace and Flooed to Northpass. When he stepped out of the grate, Narcissa, ‘Dromeda, and Teddy were nowhere to be found. Finally, things were looking up.

He shot into the bathroom and turned on the faucet, excited when clear, cool water poured out. Draco then tried to remove his bathrobe, but found that it wasn’t budging. What the absolute _fuck_? And then he remembered Future Promise #28, which stated that all former Death Eaters were forbidden from removing their clothing in the residence of a minor.

Pushed past his breaking point, Draco stepped into the shower anyway, still garbed in his bathrobe. He found that he could at least pull it away from his skin enough to soap up and rinse off, and he did just that. Though the shower was far from what he’d envisioned, Draco tried to keep his composure intact even as he realized that he was drowning in bureaucracy. He stayed in the shower for far too long.

When Draco finally emerged from the shower, he dried himself and his robe with a Drying Charm so that it fluffed around him and caused static electricity with his hair. Grimacing, he exited the bathroom and wandered into the kitchen, where he found ‘Dromeda making a cup of tea.

“Hello, Draco,” she said, still a little cautious around her nephew. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown tired of the showering at the Manor?”

Draco sighed. “No, of course not. Have you read the _Prophet_ today?”

“There wasn’t time. Don’t tell me, not another-”

“Future Promise, yeah,” Draco smiled without humor.

‘Dromeda poured tea into two cups, and offered one to Draco as she sat down at the cozy kitchen table. He warily accepted, and sat down across from her, careful to keep his bathrobe firmly closed.

“I don’t know what this new world is coming to,” ‘Dromeda frowned. “You’d think the Ministry’d want those who’ve made mistakes to be able to rehabilitate themselves.”

“I know,” said Draco. He was going to say something else, but forgot what it was when ‘Dromeda asked, “Any luck with that little firm Cissy said you’d started?”

“None,” he answered gloomily, starting to fall back into the feelings of hopelessness and despair that had driven him to never want to leave his bed again.

“I didn’t expect you to have any,” she replied, running her fingers through her long, blond hair. Draco could tell immediately when she and his mother had reconnected that they were sisters, even if Narcissa was thinner with more sallow skin that Andromeda.

Draco raised one elegant eyebrow, as if to ask if she really thought so little of him. Picking up on his question, ‘Dromeda heeded him off. “It has no reflection on you of course, but I know what they’re doing to your, ahem, peers. Your former acquaintances.”

“I’m not in touch with them any longer,” Draco said, trying to keep his pride intact.

“No, of course not,” ‘Dromeda said. “But they’re treating former…” and here she broke off, perhaps afraid to offend Draco. With a deep breath, she continued, “…former Death Eaters terribly. Today, I was with Cissy and Teddy in Gringotts, and that young Zabini boy was trying to make a withdrawal from his account. The goblins would have treated him like anyone, but they’ve instilled a new clerk there with names. If you’re on the list, and Zabini was, they want a written account of what the funds are going to be used for.”

Draco exhaled, and said nothing. He’d been planning to stop by Gringotts and do an evaluation of the Malfoy vaults, but it looked as if that was out of the question.

‘Dromeda continued, “Naturally so, he was belligerent about it, and pulled out his wand, so the pithy clerk pulled out his as well, and they stood there hexing and jinxing each other in front of everyone for 15 minutes before Ministry officials arrived on scene. They took Zabini away.

Draco remained emotionless, unable to shake the feeling that he, and all the other former Death Eaters, were still criminals.

“That’s not the worst part,” ‘Dromeda said, forging on, as Draco wondered how much more there could possibly be. “As they were escorting Zabini out, some renegade started shouting about how the Ministry wasn’t doing enough. He fancied himself a hero, and shot curses at the defenseless Zabini. The Ministry was forced to protect him, but they clearly didn’t want to.”

“My mother and, erm, _Teddy_ , they’re alright?” Draco asked, his cousin’s name unfamiliar coming off of his tongue.

“Of course,” reassured ‘Dromeda. “But this happened not 10 feet away from us. I was too shaken up; really just wanted to have some tea. Cissy and Teddy are at Fortescue's.”

Unconsciously, Draco massaged his palms into his forehead, understanding that it really wasn’t safe for him to even go out in public anymore. Draco’s thoughts begin to clear, and he grudgingly realized that maybe his mother wasn’t so forward after all by suggesting that he spend some time in the muggle world. He decided to run it by Andromeda, remembering that she had been married to a muggle.

“Er, ‘Dromeda?” Draco struggled to even formulate the question. “Did my mother happen to mention anything to you about the conversation we had yesterday?”

“Vaguely.”

Damn. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. ‘Dromeda obviously wanted him to be specific; wanted the proposition to come from him and not her.

“About living in the…” Draco broke off. He thought saying the words aloud, in the perfectly reasonable light of day without alcohol induced hazes, might just break him. “About living in the muggle world,” he blurted, in one breath.

“Ah, yes,” ‘Dromeda smiled, “It’s coming back to me now. Cissy said you would probably mention it sooner or later. She knows how skeptical you are of everything.”

Ignoring his mother’s apparent so-called “knowledge” of his tendencies, Draco asked, “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“I can’t answer that for you, Draco,” said ‘Dromeda wistfully. “Heaven knows if I could, your life would have turned out a lot differently.”

He glared at her.

“I will say that as hatred keeps increasing towards former Death Eaters, you may be a lot safer in the muggle world.”

“Naturally,” Draco agreed. There was still something on his mind. “But you don’t think that I’d be, um, I’d be…”

“Lowering yourself, you mean?” scoffed ‘Dromeda.

Draco couldn’t meet her eyes.

“You’ll never be anything near happy in the muggle world unless you can start putting that god-awful prejudice behind you.” Her tone turned condescending, “Your situation isn’t quite so dissimilar from a muggleborn witch or wizard’s…”

A dull flush crept up onto Draco’s cheeks and he started becoming warm in his suddenly much too-fluffy bathrobe.

‘Dromeda sighed, and took a swig of tea. “But maybe I’m being too hard on you. It’s not your fault, the way you grew up. With that _father_ of yours, and Cissy partly to blame too…” She seemed to check herself and said, “But you have a choice now. And to answer your earlier question, yeah, I think you should go.”

He finally met her eyes and for a long moment they sat there staring at each other, Draco trying not to jump to his parents’ defense even though he knew exactly how incredibly wrong it was.

Finally ‘Dromeda looked away, and Draco began to politely excuse himself. He figured that his mother and Teddy would be on their way home shortly, and he wasn’t keen on seeing his mother for the second time in as many days. Besides, even though ‘Dromeda’s company was not entirely unpleasant, he wanted some time to think. ‘Dromeda understood, and he had a feeling she wanted a few moment’s peace as well. 

Draco made his way to the grate, looking back at the last minute. “Thanks for-”

“Don’t mention it,” she said gruffly, already performing a Cleaning Charm on the teacups and getting ready to head upstairs.

A ghost of a genuine smile flared over Draco’s face, the first one all day. Maybe he’d be able to get along with his aunt. Surprisingly, the knowledge did something to ease the loneliness he’d never admit existed within him.

He Flooed back to the Manor, and found the house elves in the midst of preparing lunch. Draco didn’t let them see him, as he was in no mood to give orders or even be asked what he wanted. Once back in his bedroom, he changed into a cool gray sweater and fitted black trousers before sitting down to make a pros and cons list of living in the muggle world vs. the wizarding world.

After a few minutes of hard effort writing, Draco threw down his pen in disgust and crossed one leg over the other. There was no real reason not to go to the muggle world. If he continued to ask people their opinions of the idea, they’d tire quickly of him. Besides, this was supposed to be _his_ choice. He’d parroted his father’s beliefs for years, which got him ostracized from society. If he did go, Draco knew that it wouldn’t be because Narcissa and Andromeda encouraged the idea. They had simply opened his mind to an alternative path, one he’d never before considered. That wasn’t to say Draco didn’t appreciate their blessing. It was nice to do something that your family wasn’t opposed to, especially –Draco realized with an unpleasant squelch in his stomach- as they were the closest family members he had left.

Of course, when Lucius found out, Draco would have more than enough anger and shame thrown in his face. It was a good thing, he reflected, that his father would be out of the picture for a very long time. And even if he did come back, Draco knew that he could handle it. After all, he was making his own decisions now. Yes, of course. Anyone who had a problem could talk about him all they wanted.

Draco heard a house elf yelling downstairs, and quickly deduced that they too were having issues with the lack of available water. Well, all the more reason to leave tomorrow. He’d use the rest of the afternoon and evening for packing, and then be off in the morning. Narcissa could get the water reinstated for the elves on Monday.

Now, where would he go? Draco had always wanted to go to North America. He resolved to explore the different – what did they call them there? States? –before settling on a location. It was high time he made some changes in his life. Momentarily satisfied, Draco headed downstairs to eat lunch.

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	3. Running Down a Dream

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Bright and early the next morning, Draco’s eyes snapped open: it was time. He jumped out of bed and strode into the bathroom to freshen up the best he could without water. Even _Aguamenti_ wouldn’t help him, as the charm could only draw water if there was a quantity nearby and readily available. No matter, Draco grimaced. Surely the muggles had managed to exploit all the natural resources in North America and he could access them there.

Dressing in a burgundy sweater and a clean pair of black trousers, Draco grabbed his designer rucksack and made for the door. He reluctantly made detours along the way to place Stasis Charms on the rooms the house elves wouldn’t enter.

He’d considered the best possible moment to surrender his magic – even the thought made him grimace –and had decided it would be after he figured out which part of the country he wanted to settle in. After all, North America was a lot bigger than he’d initially expected. It would take days to travel across it with one of those little moving vehicles and take it all in.

Closing his eyes, Draco concentrated on a stereotypical image of the Statue of Liberty. _Destination_. _Determination_. _Deliberation_.  Surely it couldn’t be that hard, even if he’d never been there? He turned on his heel and immediately felt the journey spiraling out of control; quickly, Draco tried to rectify whatever mistake he’d unwittingly made. What was another place in America? Bloody hell. And oh God, it had to be somewhere muggles wouldn’t see him appearing out of thin air.

 _Whoosh_. Draco’d made it to, well, _wherever_ he was without Splinching himself. Smiling at the victory, he opened his eyes to take in the new surroundings. He was standing on a boat dock, with large gray rocks surrounding him on the side closest to the open water. It was a bright, clear day, and from the way the waves gently rocked into the shore, the body of water was a lake. Good God, that smell; it reminded Draco of the time the house elves had brought home raw fish and forgotten to clean it for at least a week. Nauseated, Draco set off at a brisk walk down the dock towards the open shore. He walked up the ramp, already sweating from the hot, humid air. Apparently, this wasn’t New York.

Finally, Draco got his first real glimpse of wherever it was he’d landed. There was a run-down shopping center, loads of straggly green grass, and a one main road that looked as if had clearly seen better days judging by how cracked and holey it was. He began to wonder if he’d completely gone mental. This was _not_ how America was supposed to look. Unsure what to do, Draco continued to walk until he reached a smaller lane with little rectangles that resembled the street. He stood there running his hand through his hair until a red wheeled box, a vehicle –a _car_ , Draco finally remembered – came careening down the road straight over the patch of grass in-between the street and the lane and directly at him. Panicking, Draco dove off the strip towards the nearest tree, attempting to put it between himself and the driver.

A window rolled down. “Hey you. Yeah, you!” the driver, a man not that much younger than Draco, frantically gesticulated. “Have you seen a little boy, about 4 years old? Old Edna up on Irving Park went and lost him again.”

“Er, no,” said Draco, madly resisting the urge to pull out his wand and hex the guy into oblivion. “What’s the big idea, you wanker? Do you always scare the person you’re trying to talk to half to death by almost running them over?”

“Chillax, brah,” the guy said, lighting a cigarette. “Just trying to help my girl Edna out. She was my sister’s babysitter for two years, practically like family.” His eyes narrowed at Draco, who was still quite close to the tree. “You’re clearly not from the area. Keep an eye out for the boy, ya hear? We look out for each other in ole’ Shefftucky.”

“Wait, where? Shefftucket?” asked Draco, face wrinkled with confusion.

Car still running, the guy took a drag of his cigarette. “Sheffield Lake. Shefftucky’s just a little nickname the locals use. Brah, do you make a habit of not knowing where the hell you are?”

Not knowing what to say, Draco tried to establish some rapport. He made his voice less crisp, losing his usual enunciation and slurring his words, “Last night was so fucked up, you wouldn’t believe how some of those college girls party.”

Inwardly cringing, Draco was rewarded when the guy threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I bet you were out at BG. How the fuck did you get here, anyway? Your bros must have some sense of humor.”

What was BG? Draco decided to play along, “Yeah man, my mates are, well, they’re something else.”

“You’re weird as shit, you know that right?” asked the guy, leaning over to push open the front passenger door. “Get in, I’ll take you to where you need to go.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Draco, “I’ll, uh, catch up with them later. Don’t you have a kid to find?”

The guy inhaled wrong on his cigarette and started coughing. “Shit! Thanks for the reminder. Can you get that?” he pointed at the door.

Draco reluctantly walked forward and grasped a car door for the first time, unsure how hard to close it. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem to mind when he sent it careening into the body of the car.

There were a series of clicks within the car, and then it started moving away from Draco. A thought occurred to him, and he shouted, “Hey, wait!” The guy stopped for a second time and looked at Draco expectantly. “So, um, what state are we in, anyway?”

With a knowing smirk, the guy asked, “You _must_ have gone hard last night. We’re in Ohio, dumbass.” He drove away without waiting to hear any more questions from Draco.

Irked by the insult, Draco again thought of using magic – with just a flick, he could take out a wheel and then the disgusting muggle might reconsider insulting people he knew nothing about: especially a Pureblood wizard that so happened to be a former Death Eater. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, somehow comprehending that the Ministry would have his ass if he tried anything, even in the middle of nowhere.

 _Ohio_ was not the place for him. If Draco didn’t at least have some intelligent, sentient beings to interact with, he might just lose his mind completely. Not to mention the disgusting smell coming from the lake and the downtrodden appearance of what seemed to be the main hub of the city.

Mind made up, Draco saw some bushes behind the smallest library he’d ever seen in his entire life and made a beeline for them. Taking care to make sure he wasn’t spotted, Draco again focused on New York, turning on his heel and giving himself over to his magic.

The Statue of Liberty was nowhere to be seen when Draco again landed, feeling a slight pain in his temples from the pressure of Apparation. Bloody hell, where was he now? This destination was, if possible, even hotter and more humid than Ohio. Draco’s underarms were already soaked with sweat, as was – he noticed with horror – the regions underneath his boxers. With satisfaction, Draco noticed that this place at least smelled a lot better than Sheffield Lake. There was a faint, citrusy smell in the air, and the surrounding area was dotted with palm trees. He seemed to be in a secluded area of beach, hearing voices but not seeing people.

Draco tentatively took a step, groaning when he realized his patent leather shoes were getting sandy as well as sweated in. America was not glamorous, at least in the heat of summer. Pushing up his sleeves, he walked towards the voices, still dragging along his designer rucksack.

Without bothering with pleasantries this time, Draco strode up to a family in bathing suits with moisture running down his back and face. He was becoming less and less tolerant of the climate, and wanted to find out just where he was so he could make sure to never return.

“Excuse me, mug-” Draco caught himself, barely. “Lady. Where the bloody hell am I?”

The woman gasped, and he was taken by surprise when her burly muggle husband stepped angrily in front of his wife and said, “Who do you think you are, pal?” pointing a finger in Draco’s direction. “Speaking to my wife like that! You’ve got some nerve to disturb us on our only vacation this year.”

His wife took a step back while the two children grasped hands and winced. It was unclear whether they were frightened by Draco or expecting some sort of explosion from the man.

“Who’d want to vacation here?” said Draco under his breath. “It’s bloody miserable-”

The man’s face turned redder and redder and he stomped towards Draco, belly protruding, to jab his finger into Draco’s chest. “I don’t know what kind of junkie addict you are to not even know where the _fuck_ you are, but you’d best get out of here before I call the cops and report your sorry ass.”

Now that was insulting. Sure, Draco was practically melting from heat, but that wasn’t apparent from his outer appearance. Unless it was the combination of slicked back blonde hair with porcelain skin? But this man’s family was blonde too…with an unpleasant lurch deep in his stomach, Draco realized that his Dark Mark was fully visible with his sleeves pulled back.

“Chillax, brah,” Draco smirked, raising his hands as he retreated. The conversation earlier with the guy from Ohio was coming in handy after all. If Draco hadn’t channeled the dialogue of the druggie/stoner guy, then angry, pompous, Slytherin Draco would have come out and verbally annihilated the man.

He cautiously bent down and picked up his rucksack, and made another cautionary motion towards the man, who was standing in front of his family with his arms crossed. After another moment, Draco felt safe enough to turn around and find a way off of the sodding sand. He caught sight of a brochure on a nearby picnic table and anxiously grabbed it, hoping for a clue as to where he was. _Welcome to Daytona Beach, Florida_. Good to know. He was never coming back here again in his natural life.

A sunny looking woman was passing, decked out in a red bathing suit and a white pair of shorts. She had a whistle around her neck. On impulse, Draco decided to stop her. Remembering not to address her as “muggle,” he said, “Excuse me,” and flashed her the kindest smile he could conjure up, making sure to put his pearly whites on full display.

Draco’s hope of charming her was successful, as she stopped and returned the smile. “Hi stranger,” she cooed, looking him up and down. “You’re not really dressed for the beach. Looking for the bathrooms?”

“Actually,” Draco said, “I’m looking for a place that has palm trees like here but isn’t so bloody hot and humid. I don’t suppose you’d know of one?”

She grinned, identifying with him. “Yeah, for sure. Takes a while to get used to Florida. Well, the only place I can think of like that is southern California. It’s pretty polluted up there in L.A., so you might want to try San Diego.”

Draco could only imagine what an ellay was, but he committed San Diego, California to memory. That was definitely going to be his next destination.

“Thanks,” he said. “Say, you know what kind of jobs are out there?”

“Well, what kind of education do you have?” she asked, crossing her arms thoughtfully. “I’m in college right now, and I have to work as a lifeguard to save up money for tuition cause I can’t find a paid internship.”

Taken aback, Draco retained his composure even though he only understood about half of what she said. “I’d like to go to college,” he said.

“Good plan,” she said, nodding approval. “You’ll have a lot more open to you in terms of jobs. I’d try to get into a 4 year University if you can, though you can do the first two years at a junior college if really necessary. Anyways, nice chatting with you, but my shift’s about to start.”

“Bye,” said Draco, reflecting on how different some muggles were from each other. The man and his family were skittish and brutish, while the girl was much more open and relaxed. He supposed his approach may have had something to do with it, and then remembered that the man had said his family was on vacation. So where were they from exactly? Wherever it was, he hoped it wasn’t California.

Draco couldn’t imagine the disgrace he’d bring down on the family name by not only entering the muggle world, but by working in a _service_ job. He needed education, and after considering how much time he spent on the NEWTs, it seemed unfair to simply whip up the proper documentation. Draco wasn’t sure he could fake 4 years of muggle higher education. After further thought, he decided that with his fantastic NEWT scores, it was appropriate for him to enter University with 2 years of coursework done. He’d manifest the paperwork from, what was it she said, a _junior college_ , and then magically arrange acceptance at the University of his choice. Hell, if college kids partied like he’d pretended they did earlier that same day, this could be fun. Smiling, Draco concentrated on images of palm trees without humidity, knowing he’d easily make it to San Diego. 

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Back in the wizarding world, Harry Potter was having a much less successful day. He’d also gone back to Hogwarts to study for NEWTS, mainly at Hermione’s insistence, and had managed to achieve the scores required to go into Auror training. Frankly, Harry expected that the Ministry would have accepted his application anyway, seeing as he _did_ destroy Voldemort and save the world.

After the stress and mental taxation that came with defeating the Dark Lord, Harry had wanted to take a year off before doing much of anything. Ron, however, chose to follow Hermione back to Hogwarts. Harry knew that if he waited a year, he would be even less motivated to go back without his closest friends, and so he abandoned all fantasies of a year off.

Auror training had begun the summer after graduation with the delivery of a massive amount of manuals and paperwork to Grimmauld Place. There had been a note from John Dawlish, the current Head Auror, instructing him to study all the reading material inside and out. Apparently, there would be a test at the end of the summer.

Harry was exhausted. He had sponged up all the information in the texts, and was in the process of committing the last one, _How to Effectively Negotiate Hostage Situations_ , to memory. He waited for a distraction that would never come, as Ron and Hermione were both swamped with their new career choices too. Ron had chosen to become a Healer, a profession that required at least 2 more years of school, sometimes 3. He was staying in a small flat near St. Mungo’s with Hermione, who was working part time to help rebuild the Ministry while also studying full time to become an instructor at Hogwarts.

For years, Harry’s life had centered on eradicating the world of evil, of ending Voldemort’s reign. Catching dark witches and wizards was the only thing he’d really ever known. Somehow, though, he was having doubts about whether or not he really wanted to be an Auror. Now that Voldemort was defeated, he thought that there would be less of a need for them. The Ministry, however, disagreed. Harry had received memos throughout the summer about how they feared the former Death Eaters would band together and create a new Dark Lord, now that there was a vacancy. Personally, Harry thought they were over-reacting a bit. He supposed that, like him, fighting evil was all they’d ever known and they wanted to keep everything under control as to never be confronted again with a situation like Voldemort.

Still, though, Harry was tired. He would have asked for the time off, but Ron and Hermione were happily building their careers and he didn’t want to be left behind. He had enough money to live comfortably, but maybe one day his fame would run out. In fact, he almost wished that it would. On the rare occasion he went to a wizarding park to study his materials, adoring fans would bombard him from all directions. One time, he resorted to Apparation to escape the fray, but one devoted fan was crazy enough to grab his arm for the journey. After that, Harry took to glamouring his appearance before going out in public.

He wished that he could glamour his appearance as to avoid Ginny. She had become practically inseparable from his side, especially after he revealed that he was almost ready for the Auror entry exam. Harry was forced to instruct Kreacher to tell Ginny he was out during the day or sleeping if she ever came by during the evening. It was only so long that he’d be able to brush her off. He still cared for her, of course, but not with the same level of passion that he’d had in abundance during his sixth year.

Actually, there wasn’t much that could rile Harry up anymore. He simply felt too empty inside, too far removed from everyone around him. Even when visiting Ron and Hermione there was still a void inside of him that he could not fill, a void that caused him much melancholy. He would act glum and gloomy quite often, but his friends put up with his behavior while discouraging it heavily. Sometimes he would forget himself and become consumed with their good humor, but it was happening less and less lately.

Harry was determined to get through his exam and start Auror training full time. Maybe if he had some sense of purpose, if he could find a _reason_ to exist again, maybe then things would get back to normal. He would be hearing from Dawlish this week for the date of his written exam. Doodling, Harry went back to his textbook. Only three hours later, when he finally looked up and rubbed his eyes, would he notice that he’d been drawing palm trees all over his paper.

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	4. Sugar with Coffee and Tea

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Draco’s time in University was eventful, to say the least. At Hogwarts, Draco had worked bloody hard to get top NEWT scores and become something of a workaholic in the process. He was no different with his muggle coursework. Draco was used to putting his best effort into whatever he did (by default being the best at it as well) and half-assing the assignments would have caused him to think less of himself. He’d chosen English as a major, reflecting that he’d always liked to read, so he mainly wrote essays while still having some exams thrown in.

After a throughout tongue-lashing from his roommate, who firmly abided by the rule “C’s get degrees,” Draco tried one night to play as hard as he worked. His acquaintances from Debate Club (he’d reluctantly joined at the suggestion of a professor he actually respected) threw a party, and, while sniggering about the awkward games they’d played in middle and high school, decided to take their reminiscing one step further. Draco’s usual composure was already slipping thanks to cheap whiskey, but when they announced that everyone would now be participating in a game of “Suck and Blow,” his eyes widened and he choked on his drink.

Fortunately, the name was quite misleading: taking part only involved sitting in a circle and “sucking” a playing card against one’s lips to pass to another person by “blowing” the card off to their mouth. Draco had been reluctant enough to participate, but the general ribbing of the group soon incited him to participate – they were fellow members of the _Debate_ Club, after all. His reluctance reached an all-time high when the next game, “Spin the Bottle,” was announced. Once he understood the rules of the game, Draco became convinced that his teammates were all just horny fucks. They explained the rules to him – you spin the bottle and kiss whoever it points to – and he could only imagine where they’d been. There weren’t rumors of mad STD outbreaks on campus for no reason.

There was also a twist. After the kiss had occurred, everyone else would judge whether or not the participants had enjoyed themselves, and if they had, each would do a shot. If they were blushing afterwards, two shots. Draco had not consented to the additions to the rules; as far as he was concerned, “Suck and Blow” had been close contact enough. Not that he cared about what others thought, but it would have been very difficult to leave the game and walk out of the room. After all, he’d have to see these people every club meeting for the rest of the year. Not to mention the fact he didn’t think he could walk home thanks to the whiskey.

Of course, basking in Draco’s discomfort, they voted him the lucky first to spin. Grimacing, he did, and it landed on a dude. Amidst squeals and laughter, he shrugged his shoulders, and reached out to spin again. Hands came out of nowhere to stop him as some of the drunker girls shouted, “What’re you doing? Kiss him already!”

His eyes met those of his grinning partner’s, and Draco looked away. He’d spent an hour earlier that same day debating the varied uses of a spatula with the man he now had to _kiss_. “Ooh, he’s already blushing!” another girl gushed, “Can we make him do 4 shots?”

Draco shot her an icy glare, rising to his feet on slightly shaking legs. He walked towards Jake, who was already standing, and looked at him tentatively as if to say, _this is ridiculous_. Unable to make the first move, he stood there until one of the more perverted club members shoved him. Tipsy and off-balance, Draco went soaring towards his friend, who caught him effortlessly and swung him down for a movie-star kiss. His lips were plump, warm, and soft – exactly the opposite of what Draco had been expecting. The surrounding vultures clapped and drunkenly cheered while his body, quite unwelcomely, had a heated and unpredictable reaction to the contact. _Good God._

When Jake finally released him, Draco managed to turn and retreat gracefully back to his spot in the circle, but his face was burning. Naturally, this fact was noticed and he was passed one of several bottles of whiskey and a shot glass. “Two shots!” they crowed gleefully.

The game progressed without much more incident, for which Draco was eternally grateful. Everyone eagerly watched as one of the silly drunk girls came over to kiss him a while later, but Draco wasn’t nearly as affected by the embrace. In his drunken haze, he wasn’t able to realize the implications of why he had no reaction.

After burning through another couple bottles, the group slowly disbanded. Draco had started slowing down after his blushing incident, but was still having trouble standing upright. Jake came over and clapped him on the back, smirking. “You’re a good sport, man.”

“Shut up, wanker,” Draco groaned, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair. “So you’re used to making out with blokes then?”

“’Course not,” Jake said slowly. “But it wouldn’t be a problem, would it.”

Draco merely looked over and raised his eyebrow with a disparaging glare. “Idiot.”

They started walking towards the exit of the apartment building, Jake stumbling down the last few stairs and flailing wildly. Draco ran his hand through his hair: the ground was spinning. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. You and my friggin’ roommate, you’re both morons. I have a midterm tomorrow. A _midterm._ That’s twenty, no, _thirty percent_ of my grade.”

They continued to walk falteringly down the street, Jake sniggering at Draco’s predicament. “What time? You know, it’s only 10, no 11, now. Wait, it’s not past 12, is it?”

“I only did this,” Draco conceded, “Because it’s an afternoon class. But never again!” he threw one finger up in the air and paused to rest on a telephone pole outside Jake’s apartment. “I can’t think clearly unless I’m standing still…” he moaned, closing his eyes.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his waist and yet another pair of lips meeting his. “Can you still think straight now?” came Jake’s voice before he crushed his mouth back down upon Draco’s. Not as surprised as he would have been just a few hours ago, Draco kissed back this time. Without the eyes of the crowd upon him it didn’t feel nearly as wrong.

When Jake pulled away, Draco said, “You really are a wanker. Didn’t you get enough earlier?”

“Not nearly enough,” breathed Jake. “Do you want me to stop?”

Unable to believe himself, Draco whispered, “No.”

“Come upstairs,” urged Jake when they surfaced again. Draco allowed himself to be led out of the street and up the iron stairs that led to Jake’s apartment.

When he woke up the next morning in Jake’s bed, he had absolutely no recollection of what he’d been doing there. Draco whipped back the covers and saw with relief that he still had his jeans on, because if he hadn’t, _bloody hell_. He noticed with satisfaction that Jake wasn’t in the room, so as gracefully as possible he shot out of the bed and found his shirt.

He was just opening the door to the hallway when Jake popped out of the kitchen. “Oh, hey! You’re up. Want to go down to East-”

Draco fixed him with a deathly look. “Now, now,” Jake smiled, “You weren’t wearing that cold face last night when I-”

“Jake,” said Draco, holding out his hand and closing his eyes. “Just stop. I have no idea what happened last night, and I don’t think I want to know.”

“Bro, you don’t have to be like that,” said Jake, stung.

Draco relented. “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “For the meeting, alright?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Jake mumbled, still clearly upset.

Draco twisted his face into what he hoped was a semi-apologetic gaze for a few seconds before he made a break for the door. Good God, he never thought he’d be making the walk of shame not only out of a _muggle’s_ house, but a _muggle man’s_ house. No wonder he’d overheard so many parents telling their little first years to stay sober.

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Harry had finally progressed to the next step in his training, having passed the Auror entrance exam with flying colors at the end of August. Since then, throughout most of the late summer and fall he’d been confined to the office in the Ministry, following up his summer studying textbooks with the equally tedious job of filling out all sorts of forms and paperwork.  The more experienced Aurors went out in the field and did something worthwhile, while Harry and the other Auror trainees learned how to process and store the information they brought back. Harry couldn’t pretend he wasn’t resentful of this fact. He desperately tried not to think it, but couldn’t hold back the nagging thought that none of _them_ had faced Voldemort on multiple occasions until they finally killed him. Yet they weren’t swimming in paperwork.

He still didn’t even want the position. Most of the names that circled through were those of former Death Eaters, and Harry began to feel more indignant each day that they continued to disturb the peace without the Dark Lord’s influence. He hadn’t saved the world for nothing.

Finally, after yet another file had come through about Parkinson’s current misdeed and was waiting to be processed. Harry lost it. He threw down the folder with a _bang_ , shoved his chair back from the desk, and gathered his robes around him. The other trainees gave him emphasizing gazes, but otherwise said or did nothing. That was it, he’d had it; he was going to stomp into Dawlish’s office right now and resign, effective immediately.

He’d been hoping to meet someone else as he walked down the corridor as to give them scathing looks that perfectly described what he thought of the Ministry, and by extension, bureaucracy, but unfortunately the halls were empty. Dawlish’s door was closed. Without knocking, Harry threw open the door and inhaled, preparing for the torrent of angry words that would follow.

Before he could get out the first sentence, Dawlish said, “Ah, Harry. I was just about to come down and give you the good news. You’ll be going out on your first case tomorrow.”

Harry goggled. He closed his mouth, vividly aware that it was still open, and simply gawked at Dawlish. All the fire had been taken right out of him.

“How’re you liking the desk job?” asked Dawlish, crossing his legs and turning a pencil upside down in his hands.

“Um,” said Harry, trying to find a polite way to say that he was losing his mind. “It’s, er, quiet.”

Dawlish guffawed. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harry, relieved. He wasn’t about to miss his chance to speak honestly.

“I thought as much. Someone like you who’s already been in the field, you’ll never be happy behind a desk,” said Dawlish. “But we have certain methods and procedures, so I couldn’t in good faith send you out there without knowing all the proper information.

Harry barely restrained a snort. Those “methods and procedures” hadn’t been necessary to fight Voldemort. This was just some cock and bull nonsense; more sludgy bureaucracy.

“But you aced your entrance exams, and now that you’re familiar with the office, I think you’re ready. You’ll be with me tomorrow.”

“You’re the Head Auror, though,” blurted Harry. He was certain to be accused of being impulsive or hot-headed under the “by the book” attitude he noticed that Dawlish had.  

Dawlish smiled. “I’ll be honest. Before I was promoted after the war, I’d been in charge of training all new recruits. Finn does it now, but why pass up the chance to train Harry Potter?”

Flushed, Harry narrowly avoided throwing a temper tantrum in Dawlish’s office. More special treatment, that’s what this was. Special treatment he didn’t even _want_.

“Don’t worry, though. It’ll be fun. You won’t be going on a routine house call. I’ve got something special in mind.”

Harry’s interest was piqued and it was enough to reconsider quitting. “Er, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow morning then,” he nodded to Dawlish on the way out, thinking about how, just maybe, this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.

He Apparated home to Grimmauld Place, in a rare good mood. So good, in fact, that he didn’t even mind seeing that Ginny had let herself in and fought Kreacher for the task of preparing dinner.

“Harry!” she said in surprise, “I didn’t expect you for another hour at least!”

“Yeah, well, Dawlish let me out early to get some rest for my first field day tomorrow,” Harry said, unable to keep a grin from spreading across his face.

“That’s great, Harry!” Ginny cried, launching herself across the kitchen and into Harry’s arms. He didn’t pull back, for a change, instead putting his hand in her bright red hair and meeting her lips in a rough kiss.

Gasping, Ginny looked into Harry’s eyes before slowly deepening the kiss. He knew he hadn’t been all that physical lately, but surely it was just the paperwork getting to him. With his other hand, Harry ran his fingers along the curve of Ginny’s breast as her breath caught in her throat. She clasped her hands around his shoulders and whispered, “Tonight?” In response, Harry lifted her off the ground and started off in the direction of his bedroom.

They fell on the bed together, Harry already unbuttoning Ginny’s blouse and unhooking her bra. She sharply inhaled as his mouth fell over her taunt nipples, running her hands through his hair. He kissed her again then, fingers taking the place of where his mouth had been seconds earlier. Ginny undid his trousers and stroked his length through his boxes, sighing contentedly. Harry responded in kind by nipping at the tender skin around the nape of her neck, sliding up her skirt; backing up long enough to pull off his boxers and trousers while she removed her panties.

Seeing as Harry wasn’t quite yet hard enough, Ginny leaned down and caressed until he was much more erect. Hot and ready, Harry clambered on top of Ginny and pulled her apart so that he could join them together. Finally. She was so soft, and Harry gently thrust into her, bending down to kiss her more fully. She wrapped her legs around his back and he again stroked her breasts.

But they both noticed that something was wrong on the next thrust. Harry pulled out and saw that he was totally and completely flaccid. Humiliated, he looked down at Ginny and saw that she was blushing as well. He had no idea what to say.

Eventually, he twisted off and plopped down next to her on the bed. “Uh, it’s only our first time,” Ginny said, nervously playing with a piece of red hair. “Isn’t it supposed to be awkward?” They made eye contact again, and this time, burst out laughing. Harry reached over and touched her cheek, grateful that she wasn’t having a more severe reaction to his dysfunctionality. But seriously, _what the fuck_? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

She leaned in and kissed him before rotating to settle as his little spoon. He wrapped his arm around her stomach, glad that she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Otherwise, she’d have been able to see his eyes tearing up before the wetness silently spilled down his cheek closest to the pillow.

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	5. Heart Stain on the Carpet

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Draco did not see Jake the next day in Debate Club, as he’d decided not to go. Nothing convinced him to leave his room, outside of class. He Summoned pre-packed meals from grocery stores in the dead of night and Vanished any sort of trash or waste. Classes were not to be avoided if he wanted to keep up his GPA. Draco refused to walk around campus, especially with Jake on the loose, so he set off enough Dungbombs in an already almost-deserted bathroom so he could use it as an Apparation point. This worked well.

He almost was ashamed of himself–after all, Malfoys did not simply lose face over something as silly as kissing a man–but was sure that he wasn’t upset at what he _did_ , but rather how he _felt_. Pansy was always quite taken with him at Hogwarts so he’d allowed her to preen all over him and otherwise pretend that they were dating. Part of that had included sleeping with her. Draco hadn’t minded; she usually initiated and it was pleasurable enough, but sex wasn’t something he needed or even craved. Kissing Jake had awoken some hidden part of himself that enjoyed being physical with a man much more than with a woman (or at least Pansy).

Literature was the only escape. Having numbed all of the emotions insistent on being acknowledged, Draco submerged himself in the texts he had to read for class. Literary analysis was growing on him. Up until the war ended, he would have considered the subject as useless as Divination, but having no-one to sneer at or make fun of was really interfering with who he had always perceived himself to be. Only a few other Slytherins had returned for their final year at Hogwarts, and they had never been friendly with Draco. So much time alone was not good for his mental state.

But even so, there was something to be said for reading. Draco could almost agree with Hermione Granger that books were the best places imaginable. Of course, the books Draco would have chosen himself were nothing like the ones his professors assigned. But in time he came to enjoy those all the more. After taking a crash course in muggle technology, namely computers, Draco found the school’s academic databases. He would play a game with himself. First he would read the designated text and sketch out as many interpretations as possible; the more fantastical, the better. Draco wasn’t satisfied with simple interpretations about the color blue or the symbolism of apples. To give himself the tools to do _real_ analysis, he digested book after book on literary theory with silent thank you’s to scholars such as Terry Eagleton. After forming his initial interpretations, Draco would pull ideas from all different genres of literary theory to apply to the text. He could forget everything while immersed in Athusser’s definitions of ideological apparatuses or Creed’s conceptualization of the monstrous feminine.

There was no need to do anything but read. Though Draco lived to pick apart the texts, more often than not he would find himself getting caught up in the stories. Only through the experiences of his precious characters did Draco allow himself to feel anything at all.

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“Stupefy!” shouted Harry, furiously racing after the former Death Eater named Avery.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear Dawlish crying “Harry! Slow down!” as he attempted to catch up with his trainee. Subconsciously, Harry wondered if he wasn’t trying to catch Avery while outrunning Dawlish and leaving him behind forever.

Their night had started out reasonably well. Harry arrived at the office 10 minutes early, anxious for an adventure. Dawlish was smug at the thought of taking the famous Harry Potter out on a mission, and preened quite as Harry expected him to. But the feeling of doing something worthwhile again had him enjoying the excursion regardless. Dawlish had received a tip that Avery and Mulciber were trying to form and lead a new dark organization. For Harry’s special first outing, he had planned for them to go and apprehend Avery, figuring his charge was itching to get his hands dirty. The Ministry had never considered Avery to be that much of a threat.      

Unfortunately, the mission hadn’t gone as smoothly as expected. Dawlish and Harry had unintentionally interrupted a meeting, albeit a small one, but a meeting of 4 former Death Eaters where they were outmatched. Never one to back down, Harry had gone right for Avery as he was one of the ringleaders. Dawlish would have rather Disapparated both of them out immediately, but Harry hadn’t thought to look to his mentor for guidance. Avery had (rightfully) fled cowardly from the Boy Who Vanquished Voldemort, but Harry had too much pent up energy and tore after him. Dawlish was too afraid to let him go alone, and called for backup to handle the other three

“Hey, you!” Harry bellowed, robes billowing behind him. “Where’re you going? I wasn’t done with you!”

Avery never slowed. Neither did Harry. Dawlish realized that he could be leading them some other place entirely, where the dark wizard could have an advantage. Fortunately he hadn’t walked into the situation with Harry completely unprepared. Knowing that the younger wizard had a, well, very _hands on_ style, he’d made him consent to wearing a special band that, when activated, would call Harry directly back to Dawlish. Harry had crossed his arms and glared when he was first notified of the requirement. Dawlish was unwilling to compromise, though, and only the promise of a house potentially filled with dark artifacts was enough to get Harry back on track. It had been promised that Dawlish would only activate the band in the direst of situations.

Apparently a routine chase-down-a-Death-Eater was considered one of these dire situations. Harry felt the magic from the band pulling at him and fought against it as hard as he could, while still pounding after Avery. His efforts were futile; the powerful magic eventually cut off Harry’s resistance and Apparated him back down the block.

He was greeted by the furious face of Auror Dawlish, who had his hands on his knees, panting. “Auror…Potter,” he choked out, “I thought you had…a lot more sense!” He straightened up, still gasping for breath.

Equally furious, Harry took his opportunity. “Sir, I almost had him! We could have been one step closer to finding out if the Death Eaters really are establishing a new Dark regime…that is, if we could have caught them.” He left his vicious thoughts about how slow Dawlish was out of the conversation.

Still breathing faster than normal, Dawlish said, “It’s not always about getting the bad guy immediately. _Calculated risks_ , Potter. You had no idea where he was leading you.”

Harry refused to admit Dawlish was right, even though he’d entertained the same ideas not even five minutes previously. “Sir, that’s beside the point-”

“No, it’s exactly the point,” snapped Dawlish. “You could have gotten us both killed. How exactly would that look? If Voldemort couldn’t kill you, but then you got yourself trapped in a hostage situation with a second-rate Death Eater!”

After going this far, it was impossible for Harry to back down. He knew Dawlish was making sense, but still trusted his own gut feeling over anything the man might have said. After all, Dumbledore practically took him out in the blink of an eye. Bitterly, Harry wished that Kingsley was Head Auror instead of new Minister of Magic.

Dawlish sighed, having regained full control over his breathing. “Look, Harry, this is why I took you out instead of Finn. If you’d dared pull a stunt like this on him, he would have done everything in his power to toss you out of this program. I’m much more understanding-” For one brief moment, Harry’s hopes rose. Then they came crashing back down as Dawlish continued, “You’ll be on desk duty for the next three or so months before we try this again. Reading about the successful missions of other Aurors should help show you the proper way to do things.” Upon seeing Harry’s glowering face, “Or at least the way we do things.”

Though Harry knew he was being immature, he Disapparated back to Grimmauld Place with a sharp _crack_ before throwing off his trainee Auror robes and setting them on fire right in the middle of his living room. What an utter _waste_ of a summer spent studying for a totally inefficient department.

Ginny walked in to the smell of smoke, shouted “Harry!” and immediately doused the fire with a quick Aguamenti from her wand. “What the hell did you do at work today?”

He didn’t answer her right away, having managed to turn off his brain while watching the fire consume the robes. He continued to pretend to be enchanted with the spot where the fire had scored his living room floor, using his peripheral vision to watch Ginny out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t look so understanding.

“Harry, really. What’s going on? I know you haven’t been excited about the Aurors for a while, but I thought it was getting better. Especially with your first case today.”

He briefly considered turning around and telling her how his day had really went, but the fire in his gut hadn’t died down at all. He would have just as quickly been screaming at her – and Harry knew just how well Ginny reacted to raised voices, even if they weren’t specifically directed at her.

“Look,” she said, brave enough to stand in front of him with her sneakers covering the scorched floor. “I know our relationship hasn’t really been the same since the war, but do you want me to get Ron or Hermione?”

Anger flashed through him again, and Harry snapped his head up to meet Ginny’s eyes. “What do you mean our relationship hasn’t been the same?” He chose not to focus, for the moment, on how quickly she tried to call someone else in to deal with him.

Ginny did not waver under his glare. “What do you mean, “What do I mean?” You’ve been cold and distant for months. I knew you were studying hard, but it never stopped you from being affectionate before at Hogwarts. And then when you started working full-time I thought things would get back to normal.”

She didn’t get it. There was no such thing as normal, at least not anymore. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” said Harry, feeling the anger finally dissipate. There was no use yelling at someone who was just going to misinterpret everything you said anyway.

“Merlin, Harry! Can’t you just feel something for once? I was actually relieved when you came in here and set the world on fire! I think you must have really died during the war – or at least your soul did!”

Astounded, Harry’s jaw dropped. Ginny continued to seethe at him, hand now on her hips. “Were you planning to actually tell me how you felt?” he asked mutely.

“Yeah, and why should I be honest about what I feel when you can’t even feel anything?”

He wasn’t sure how to handle that one. He cared, but not enough to encourage a long discussion about feelings and one’s role in the universe. Finally, Harry said quietly “Ginny, you’re not my shrink. I’m not just going to blurt out everything I feel. A lot of the time, I don’t even know.”

“Well maybe I could help you figure it out,” she said, continuing to be positive. It used to be one of the things Harry liked best about Ginny, how optimistic she could be. Not so much anymore.

“Look, I already told you, you can’t understand,” he said wearily, trying to close the discussion. “You’re right – I can’t feel anything. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” asked Ginny, with a hint of fear in her voice for the first time.

“This relationship,” said Harry, closing his eyes. “It’s not fair to you, and I don’t expect I’ll snap out of it anytime soon.”

Clearly upset, Ginny closed the distance between her and Harry, putting a timid hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t about last night, is it? The first time’s always rough. You should hear about what happened to Ron and Hermione-”

Harry’s eyes snapped open; that was not an image he ever wanted to contemplate again. “I don’t know, Gin, I guess part of it is. I couldn’t feel anything then either.”

“We’ll make it through this, I know it,” she said, drawing him into a hug. It wasn’t in her nature to give up easily.

Harry fought the urge to nestle his face in the crook of her neck and breathe deeply. He wanted to end this situation, not encourage it. “Ginny,” he said. She responded only by squeezing him harder. Harry squirmed out of her grip and lightly gripped both of her shoulders. He tried to impart how serious he was by staring piercingly into her eyes.

“Ginny,” Harry repeated. “I don’t feel anything. I can’t do this anymore, with you.”

“Harry,” she said, closing her hands over his forearms. “It’s okay. I can feel enough for both of us.”

She just wasn’t getting it. “Gin. I don’t desire you anymore. I can’t give you what you want, or need.” He removed his hands from her shoulders and detached her grasp.

Her intake of breath hit something deep inside Harry, and even though he saw the slow fall of tears down her face, he wasn’t able to feel enough regret to take the words back. “You can stay here if you want,” said Harry, gesturing around the living room. “But I don’t know why anyone would want to. I’m leaving, anyway.”

Despite what Harry suspected to be an iron internal will, Ginny’s tears kept falling hard and fast. Mentally and emotionally unable to deal with the situation for even another minute, Harry fled to Sirius’s bedroom to collapse for a few minutes before considering what would come next. 

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	6. May You Feel At Ease

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Draco became busier and busier as the semester went on. At Hogwarts, sure there were always essays to be done and tests to study for, but Draco thought his amount of stress over University midterms comparable to what he felt while studying for OWLS and NEWTS – the only consolation was that he was being tested on significantly less course material. English papers were another story. Ever since adopting his newfound hobby of reading the different scholarly interpretations of his course texts and for-fun books/movies, Draco greatly desired to see one of his own fabulous textual explications in print. He would never publish anything in the Wizarding World and relished that the muggle world at least gave him this opportunity. That is, if he could come up with something unique and fascinating enough to warrant publication.

He even went back to Debate Club the following week, after a long, self-reflection where he considered the attraction he felt for Jake and what it might mean. Draco wasn’t the type to simply sleep around so he could figure out his sexual identity, but he grudgingly reminded himself to keep it under consideration. Jake, for his part, had been friendlier and more easy-going than when Draco had left his apartment, which was a big relief for Draco. He had been hoping that a momentary lapse of judgement hadn’t screwed up his acquaintance with one person he actually liked in the school. They went on to partner for the next practice debate on women’s health rights and abortion, and annihilated their pro-life competition.

All in all, in a weird way Draco found himself almost starting to get used to the muggle world, though people still hadn’t gotten over his accent. Several times, he almost glamoured himself before leaving his dorm because of all the bloody attention he inevitably drew from the Americans. The only problem was that everyone (on campus, at least) already knew what he sounded like and would have been really suspicious had he suddenly dropped his posh, carefully enunciated dialect.

One of his absolute favorite parts of the muggle world was the limitless possibilities to the fashion, not to mention the utter randomness of what people actually wore. Draco would see the absolute strangest things while walking on campus – it almost seemed as though certain things were more acceptable there than anywhere else. For example, he didn’t usually see girls wearing shorts that exposed the bottom part of their bum cheeks to the grocery store or downtown. He supposed that the stares didn’t warrant their need for expression (Draco had witnessed more than one incident of creepy old men harassing young women and fought to restrain himself from pulling out his wand and hexing the buggers).

He tried like hell to stay away from using any muggle devices that weren’t necessary to his day-to-day life, but was forced to buy a laptop and learn how to use the internet because of his classes. Apparently, something called _Blackboard_ was essential if one wanted to actually see their readings, assignments, and grades. The experience of actually buying the laptop had scarred him for life, though. Draco had just walked into the first store he saw, found an employee, and said, “I need to purchase a laptop” and the guy had talked his ear off for at least a half an hour, comparing this brand and that. He vowed to use the damn thing to partake in what they called “online shopping” from now on so he’d never have to again step foot next to an overly-friendly muggle in customer service.

Draco had tried his best to retain his typically cool and collected appearance by continuing to wear impeccable button down shirts and black trousers, but warm Southern California soon got the best of him. It was a good thing he had an interest in muggle fashion. Finally, one Saturday morning he booted up his laptop and started searching online clothing dealers. The sheer amount of information overwhelmed him almost immediately. Draco literally didn’t know what a “credit card” was; he thought that muggles just used cash to buy what they needed. This was going to be a nightmare, he admitted to himself. Maybe the muggle clerks weren’t so bad after all.

After 45 minutes spent staring blankly at the screen, Draco was in a snit. Damn fashion to hell, anyway. What was so great about having options when getting dressed? He could wear gray and black trousers and formerly-starched shirts for the rest of his life. Draco snapped his laptop closed, stood up, and angrily ran his fingers through his hair. The very next second, he reflected on what Lucius would think of his temper tantrum; he very clearly remembered all of the “common behaviors” he was instructed to avoid. Well none of that mattered now, seeing as he was attending an _American University_ , for Christ’s sake, and hardly did enough magic to even classify as a wizard. Draco balled his hands into fists and tried to breathe, but he was too far gone. On his desk he caught sight of an apple-sized glass decoration that he’d never really liked. In an instant it was in his grasp, and then his arm was hurling the figurine into the wall of its own accord. Of course, Draco’s roommate, Steve, (Mr. C’s-Get-Degrees) chose that moment to unlock their door and walk in. Draco whirled around and met his eyes while the decoration shattered and covered the pair in fragments and glass dust.

Steve was dumbfounded. The normally insipid Draco was most often found studying or reading; even surfing the internet (which he had started to become fonder of as his classes forced him to rely increasingly on his laptop). The one thing he did not do was reveal his temper or even demonstrate any other extreme emotions.

When Draco made no motion to explain or to start cleaning up, Steve felt compelled to speak. “Er – I’ll just go find a dustpan, then,” he mumbled, brushing off his hair and bag before hanging the latter on a hook.

When he finally exited the room, Draco breathed a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and got his temper under control, and then reached out wandlessly to Summon all of the glass shards into a pile in the middle of the floor. He sat down on his bed and rubbed his hands over his face.

Steve found him that way when he returned five minutes later with a borrowed broom and dustpan. “Um, Draco?” he asked while hastily sweeping the ruined ornament into the dustpan. There was no response. Awkwardly, Steve shifted his weight from foot to foot, unwilling to simply leave Draco after such a fit. American sensibilities.

Finally, Draco lifted his head and asked, “Do you shop?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Um, yeah? Like, everybody shops, you know?” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Not in a store, you idiot,” huffed Draco. “Online. With a computer. With a damn _credit card_.”

Not for the first time, Steve had to wonder where exactly in God’s name Draco was from that he didn’t know about simple things like online shopping and using credit cards. “Did you drop off the face of Mars?” he uttered under his breath. Draco caught most of it, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t we go over this on day one? I came from an antiquated well-to-do village in England. Where we didn’t have cars, or credit cards, or the internet–”

“Or toasters?” sniped Steve. “I’m telling you, it feels like you’ve come down from outer space. You don’t have to be an American to know what a _toaster_ does, for crying out loud.”

Draco bristled. The incident with the toaster had only happened once, thank you very much, though unfortunately Steve had been around to witness it. Draco didn’t like talking about it, but he was quite relieved that his eyebrows had grown back quite normally a week or so after the fact.

“Look here, you sodding plebian wanker, you can either help me order some clothes online or I’m going to turn you into a bloody rat!”

“Why don’t you speak English, you stupid, helpless immigrant!”

Draco didn’t know much about American politics outside of the debate about abortion rights, with which he was now quite familiar, but he had noticed that many Americans had an unhealthy amount of hostility towards foreigners. Knowing that Steve was one of these did nothing to calm Draco down.

Through clenched teeth –how was it possible that this excuse for a human being was winding him up?– he growled “I’m studying abroad, you half-wit. You want me to speak English? I’ll speak goddamn English.”

Draco slid gracefully off of his bed, drawing himself up to full height to look as intimidating as possible. Calling every American insult he’d heard thus far to mind, he bore down on Steve. “You’re a cock-sucking, knuckleheaded, fuck boy doucher that has nothing better to do than antagonize me every goddamn day. Go out and make some friends, you stupid motherfucker.”

Steve, who had remained relatively calm throughout Draco’s tirade, looked calmly back at him to respond, “Yeah, I bet you’d like it if I sucked cocks. You’d be first in line, faggot.”

Draco saw red. Statute of Secrecy be damned, he was done with this conversation. In the back of his mind, he knew full well that the Ministry would have his ass, but that seemed a small price to pay.

He walked over to his closet and tore open the secret compartment he’d installed there in his very first week of school. Snatching his wand and waving it right before Steve’s mocking-yet-confused eyes, Draco snarled, “Obliviate!” Steve’s eyes glazed over, out of focus, and Draco regained his composure. Somehow realizing that the negative direction of the conversation had been largely his fault, Draco decided to give it another go. He said, “After you got back from lunch, you saw that I broke something and helped me clean it up. We were planning to do online shopping later today. ”

Draco let Steve gather his bearings, and in the meantime hid his wand before walking back over to the laptop sitting abandoned on his desk.

“Whoa, man,” said Steve, pressing on his temples, “I’ve got a killer headache.”

“That sucks,” said Draco, mimicking his roommate’s dialogue as he usually did in order to keep his sanity. Steve liked to imitate him as well, and had much less skill adopting accents than Draco did. “Hey, weren’t you going to help me do some shopping?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Steve said, immediately forgetting his head pain. “I just heard about this new brand, and it would legit be perfect for you. It’s a bit expensive though; is that a problem?”

Draco smirked. He could –quite literally– drown Steve in his riches. He’d save that glorious possibility for the next time the git decided to get smart with him. “Not at all, brah,” he drawled, sitting back to put his feet up on the desk. For good California measure, he crossed his arms behind his head. “Come on, first we’ve got to get me signed up for a credit card.”

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Harry had expected to feel something _more_ after breaking up with Ginny. She had been one of the many things causing him to feel tied down, and one by one he’d begun breaking those ties. Quitting his position with the Auror department had been the first step, ending things with Gin had been the second, and Harry had just went for lucky number three by declining the weekly Sunday lunch invitation to the Burrow.

He’d told Ron and Hermione that it would have been way too awkward for Ginny if he’d come over after breaking up with her the previous night, but he knew she really was strong enough to see him. The truth was that he didn’t want to be there. Along with his now ex-girlfriend and the Ministry, the Weasleys’ put a whole other set of expectations upon him. They were his family and he loved them, but it was too much to think of going over there and laughing at jokes, eating cake, and acting normally.

Instead, Harry grabbed his newest broom, Rocket Dust, and made for the front door. As expected, Ginny had packed her things and left, so Harry had the whole house to himself again. He reluctantly Disillusioned himself and the broom before mounting it and kicking off. As he zoomed up into the unusually-bright sky and felt the breeze flow through his hair, Harry caught the glimpse of something he’d been longing for since the war ended: feeling. If flying couldn’t bring him back to himself, nothing could.

He found himself near a V of birds and headed pell-mell towards them, scattering the flock. It almost brought a smile to his face, but not quite. At lightning speed, Harry switched direction and executed two barrow rolls before diving into a perfect Wronski Feint. It wasn’t right. Normally he would be laughing with excitement and aching with a sense of overwhelming content by now, but Harry still felt nothing.

Maybe there was nothing _to_ feel. Maybe Ginny was right, and the part of him that Voldemort destroyed was the place where his soul resided. If so, it was too late to get it back now. Harry reckoned that if this was the truth, it was still a fair price for being able to vanquish Voldemort.

But no…it wasn’t simply the absence of feeling, Harry reflected as he soared in mundane circles high above the earth. It was something more; a numbness. Maybe he could still feel but, like an idiot, was somehow blocking his own feeling receptors. Was something missing from his post-war life, other than Voldemort? The answer came to him immediately: no.

He breathed deeply in an attempt to calm his raging mind, and looked over the London landscape with a sense of unease. This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like home anymore, but then again, nowhere did. Not even Hogwarts, which Harry had stuck around to help rebuild after the war.

The solution came to him more quickly than he wanted to admit: leave England. Ron and Hermione wouldn’t forgive him easily if he just took off, but there was nothing to be done for that. Harry was well-aware of his history with hasty decisions, but nothing had felt so _right_ ever since things had calmed back down into the banality of everyday life.

Filled with a newfound sense of purpose, Harry flew back to Grimmauld Place, anxious to put his plans in motion. He touched down on the sidewalk outside, careful to check for muggles first, and strode in through the front door. Harry thought it best to pack up the essentials before sending out an owl to his friends, as he wouldn’t put it past them to Apparate or Floo over in a valiant attempt to stop him from leaving.

He threw jeans, t-shirts, and various pairs of boxers and socks into one of Hermione’s spare magically enlarged bags, making sure to at least grab a few sweatshirts and jackets. It didn’t seem right to only bring clothes, so Harry set about making sure he had some essential Healing potions as well as some snacks for later. It was almost, he thought with a grimace, as though he was simply going to be gone a few nights for a sleepover party.

The dreaded task of packing done, Harry located a relatively clean piece of parchment and wrote:

_Ron and Hermione,_

_You remember the other day when George was teasing Arthur for having what he called “a mid-life crisis?” I think I’m going through one of those as well. I haven’t felt like myself since the war, not that I can feel much of anything. I plan to travel for a while and see if I can find peace. This is something I have to do alone, so try not to worry. I’ll owl you every Sunday._

_Give everyone my best,_

_Harry_

He swallowed a tinge of guilt, and waved his wand to Summon an owl from the Ministry’s Courtesy Owl Service to deliver his letter to the Burrow. He’d deliberately left off from telling them where he was going to go, being unsure about that himself.

After his letter was gone, Harry couldn’t think of any other reasons to delay leaving. He closed his eyes, and the Statue of Liberty flashed through his mind. America was a good a place as any to start off. Where was that damn thing; New Yuck or something? Harry sincerely doubted that even muggles could give something a name with “Yuck” in the title. Instead, he decided to trust his magic and end up right in front of the damn thing. If he Splinched himself, he thought ironically, well, at least he’d bloody well feel something.

Concentrating again on the Statue of Liberty, Harry felt the pull on his navel and decided it would be a successful Apparation. Unfortunately, when he regained his bearings he had absolutely no idea where he’d ended up. He seemed to be in the middle of the stands in a massive stadium; thankfully there wasn’t a game going on. Harry gazed across the enormous grassy pitch to the other side, near the scoreboard, and read: **Yankee Stadium**. Was that in New York? he wondered idly. The loud _crack_ of something down on the field caught his eye; he was drawn instantly to a small white ball, only slightly bigger than a snitch, which had come careening off of something like a Beater’s bat down below. Harry unconsciously stood up in his seat and leaned over the railing, watching one of the three men in the grass field run furiously to catch the ball and then throw it back towards another man standing on the dirt. What were those nutty things on their hands? Why did the man who hit the ball start running? Harry had a thousand questions, and an aching, insane desire to join the men out in the grass.

Something was nagging at the front of his mind. He tried to embrace the memory, but it eluded him. Frowning, Harry continued to watch the game –rather, the _practice_ , as there was only one team. As he watched a running man drop to his side and slide into a white rectangle, some of Harry’s long-suppressed recollections of muggle days with the Dursley’s came flooding back to him. _Baseball_. This was a muggle sport called baseball. The knowledge made no difference to Harry as he stood there late into the evening, considering several different possibilities of how he could learn the game. 

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	7. Turn Around, Bright Eyes

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“Go, Harry! Faster!” shouted Nate from the first base line, planted firmly in the dirt, furiously pointing towards second base with his right hand and wheeling madly with his left.

After rounding first base, Harry briefly looked toward the outfield and saw the left fielder getting ready to throw the ball into second. He put on a fresh burst of speed and focused intensely on second base. Behind him, he could vaguely hear Nate yelling “Down! DOWN!”

It came more naturally to him than it should have. Of course, all the spills he’d taken on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch had been excellent preparation. Harry executed an textbook slide, bending his left knee and stretching out with his right foot as long as he possibly could, but the ball was already flying through the air. The second baseman straddled the bag in preparation, glove in place to catch the ball, and easily swing his arm down to tag Harry out. And that’s just how it happened. He really thought he’d gotten there first, but rest of the team resoundingly declared him “Out!”

After a quick chuckle, Mike the second baseman reached down to grab one of Harry’s hands and pull him to his feet. “You’re pretty damn fast, man, but you’re going to have to be faster if you want to steal on Chris.” Chris was the left fielder, and Harry grudgingly admitted that he had one hell of an arm.

Nate was jogging over now, after having retrieved his clipboard from where it leaned against the fence. “I knew Chris would get you, but I wanted you to get some extra practice in with sliding. Looks like all that time on the Slip n’ Slide paid off last week,” he said with a straight face.

Harry smiled good-naturedly while Mike broke out in fresh chuckles. The team had had a field day (pun intended) last Friday teaching him sliding techniques on an adult version of the popular child’s toy. They swore by it, though there was one memorable moment when he careened out of control and smashed into a particularly ugly lawn gnome. Harry hadn’t questioned their methods as it had been useful in helping him refine his base running skills.

“I’ll say! It would have gone much worse had I tried it on this rocky-ass field first,” Harry grinned, kicking some of the loose pebbles towards the green. Talking shit about the city’s sub-par baseball fields was collectively the team’s favorite pastime.

By this time, José, the team’s pitcher, had wandered over to take his own turn ragging on Harry. “Brah, you’re really going to wow the ladies with those moves. But they’re not going to want to take you home if you steal all the dirt off the field.” It was true; after a slid, the whole right side of Harry turned muddy reddish-brown.

“It’s not like I’ve never gotten dirty before,” Harry smirked, brushing himself off while raising his eyebrows and rolling his hips suggestively.

Mike and José roared while Nate covered the lower half of his face with the clipboard. As the team’s unofficial coach and manager, he tried his best to remain professional even through the bawdy humor that prevailed in every practice, scrimmage, and game.

“Hey, y’all!” shouted Becky Lou from third base, one of the two women on the team. “I don’t mind me a dirty bird if he’s got an ass like that!” She turned to Harry. “I suppose you’re coming home with me tonight, then aren’t you sweetheart?”

It was too much for Mike and José; they bent double laughing as even Nate couldn’t hold back any longer and joined them. Zee, the shortstop who up until this point had been obsessively re-lacing his cleats, could be heard unsubtly snickering as well (and he was usually more composed than Nate). It was well known on the team that Becky Lou was only into women, but she flirted shamelessly with her teammates – especially Harry. He had no idea how to get her off his back, and now was no exception: he flushed a bright shade of red as Nels the catcher shouted from home plate “Bring it in! Looks like there’s thunder!” Practicing in the rain was fine, if cold and wet, but the team couldn’t take any chances with metal bats getting struck by lightning.

Harry appreciated Nels a great deal. If there was anyone who had a chance of getting Becky Lou to back off, it was Nels. She was a fierce baseball player with a pure talent for picking off baserunners. Off the field, however, she had a heart of gold. Though completely straight, Nels had saved Harry from an uncomfortable situation last week by turning the tables on Becky Lou by flirting shamelessly with _her_. He brought her chocolate the next week as a thank you, and they became fast friends instantly.

As the team pounded towards home plate, Cale the right fielder slapped Harry on the shoulder. “I think you’ve got a real chance with her, mate!”

Cale was from London area as well, and Harry was endlessly thankful to have someone around that, so to say, spoke his language. The rest of the team was great, but they didn’t have the proper amount of appreciation or mirth when he called someone a wanker. As center fielder, Harry had grown quite close with both Cale and Chris, as they had to work together seamlessly to be effective.

The day after Apparating into Yankee Stadium, Harry magically located every single baseball field in the city, hoping to find someone who could teach him the game. He found one better. The New York City Co-ed Fastpitch Baseball Association (CFBA) so happened to be holding its last set of tryouts that very day. He was absolutely, positively lost – but followed directions to a T. Timed runs around the bases? Done. Swinging the much-thinner Beater’s bat at the flying white ball? Cakewalk. The only odd part had been they suited him up with a spare mitt and told him to go field some grounders and fly balls. The grounders made him uneasy, but Harry found that shagging fly balls came to him on the first try, awkward mitt or not. It was quite similar to catching the Snitch; the same mechanics of locating the ball and getting in position applied. Even though there was less flying and more running, Harry’s skillsets transferred easily. He wasn’t the best one at tryouts, but not the worst by far. Good enough, in fact, for him to be picked up by Nate – first baseman and unofficial coach of “Joe Buck Yourself,” the second-best team in the league. He saw that Harry was foreign to baseball but realized his potential. It was the beginning of January, but the team had until March 1 to whip Harry into playing condition.

They converged on home plate, José slapping Harry on the ass and grinning. Even after two months in America, Harry hadn’t yet grown used to the level of familiarity Americans had with one another.

Nate gave them a look, expecting, as usual, no goofing off while he was doing a motivational talk. “Okay, team,” he said, Nels dropping her catcher’s mask on the ground. “Our first game is on Monday. Us versus the Paleo Pandas.”

Harry spared a quick what the fuck for the opposing team’s name, and then tuned back into what Nate was saying. “I think we’re nearly there, guys –”

“And girls,” broke in Becky Lou.

“And girls,” conceded Nate.

“Say,” chirped Zee, “How about letting us off practice tomorrow then?” They met 4 times a week for practice (Nate’s team wasn’t second in the league for nothing) on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturday mornings.

Nate glared at him. “Absolutely not, Zee. You don’t come tomorrow and I’ll have your ass. We’re _nearly_ there, but we absolutely need another day to put on the finishing touches. Don’t you want to whoop some Panda ass on Monday?”

The team jeered and roared with Harry joining in, feeling utterly and completely at home in a way he hadn’t since the war ended. Nate shouted “Bring it in!” and thrust his fist into the middle of the circle. Everyone else piled their hands on top of his, and yelled “ONE! TWO!  JOE BUCK YOURSELVES!”

The more juvenile members of the team laughed uproariously again, encouraging even the more composed to join in. This was usually how it went.

They started to break, grabbing bats, assorted mitts, and batting gloves and carrying them off toward the dugout. Nate exited the diamond and walked around the other side of the high surrounding fence. “I have your uniforms here,” he called. “Pick them up on your way out – and for heaven’s sakes, don’t wear them tomorrow!”

Harry was first over and started reaching for number 0. “Ah ah ah,” said Nate, snatching it back out of his hands. “Nels always takes 0, and it’s too small for you anyway.”

Becky Lou walked up, smirking. “Here you go sweets, take this one.” Unwittingly, Harry accepted the jersey from her. He looked down to find himself with number 1. She gave him a winning smile. “You’re always number 1 in my book.”

José, also finished putting his gear away, howled. He accepted the number 5 Nate thrust at him and retreated down the path towards the parking lot, shaking his head.

Chris and Cale came over as well, rooting through the box for their usual numbers, 7 and 13.

“Come on mate,” urged Cale. They had a spare room in their apartment, and Harry had moved in after the very first team practice.

“Not again,” groaned Harry. During the past two months it had become something of a tradition for Cale and Chris to drag him out drinking on Fridays after practice – they pre-gamed on Chris’s never-ending supply of Stoli vodka and ginger ale and then spent the night out at the bar. Unwittingly, Harry drank a little too much last week and was dragged into karaoke at Cale’s insistence.

They shared evil grins. “Yes, again,” Chris said. “Come on now, you know Saturday morning practice is going to feel weird if you’re not totally hung over for it.”

Harry sighed, and threw up his hands. “Only if I pick the songs tonight. You’re going to love the new hits I’ve got in store for you…”

εїз Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ εїз

Draco loved his new muggle clothing, when it _finally_ arrived via muggle snail mail. With Steve’s help, Draco had managed to navigate around online and find a brand of muggle clothing that suited his fancy. Naturally, it was made by one of the finest European clothing makers. Draco despised how many Americans were content wearing low-quality clothes; ones from other countries, at that. He was also rather put off by the alternating preppy/surfer style shorts and tank tops other Millennial men were typically seen wearing. Though he had vowed to start avoiding stereotypes, Draco couldn’t help but classify each a “fuck boy.” Sure, the shorts he’d ordered were somewhat shorter than the ones American men wore, but combined with the relaxed-but-stylish short sleeve shirts he’d gotten to match, he looked every bit as European as his accent proved he was. Draco wouldn’t have it any other way.

After using the first two weeks of the spring semester to fall into a routine, Draco became bored. He and Jake continued to kick ass during Debate Club sessions, though he avoided every party invitation that came his way, and his reading load for all his new English classes was manageable. Term papers wouldn’t start until much later in the semester, thankfully. Draco realized that he needed a change; a new challenge. Making a life in the muggle world had been easier than he anticipated. He did feel isolated much of the time – bonding with Americans was different and much more difficult, and Draco still had to keep his magic a secret. Without being able to share two of the biggest parts of him, Draco didn’t really expect to be able to form any truly strong relationships.

After one particularly rousing debate at UCSD over the rights of the LGBTQ community, where Jake and Draco argued fervently in favor of single stall gender-neutral restrooms, they drove back to campus together.  Jake was singing loudly along with the his favorite CD–“And there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be, in a land of make believe, that don't believe in me”–drumming on the steering wheel in time to the beat. Draco found it strangely endearing. He wasn’t familiar with the song, of course, but the strong punk rock beat was catchy, and the lyrics actually did something to fill the ever-present void of loneliness and regret in Draco’s chest.

They continued to fly the highway at 80 mph, perfectly safe from a ticket because that was just the speed of traffic around them. Jake looked over and caught Draco’s eye, grinning. Draco returned the smile, desperately trying to omit the lust he was feeling from reaching his face. Jake looked back to the road, and continued to sing along line for line as he exited on College Ave. The atmosphere was still compatible, but Draco had the feeling it wasn’t going to last long.

Sure enough, after Jake pulled into the parking garage and turned the car off, Draco was halted by Jake’s hand on his left elbow as he went to open his door. Shit. He thought Jake had gotten the message after he hadn’t followed up on any of Jake’s numerous advances since their first kiss.

“Jake,” Draco began; hand still on the door opener. “Didn’t you say you wanted to make pizza? We better get started in the kitchen before those irritating third floor girls come down and hog it all night again baking cookies.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Jake mumbled, “but I just wanted to ask you something first.”

Draco waited, but Jake was apparently waiting for some sort of reply from him. He removed his hand from the door opener, silently accepting that he was not getting out of this, and turned his body towards Jake in the driver’s seat. “Mhm?” he prodded.

Jake fiddled with his car keys, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “I was kind of wondering,” he slowly said, “if you’d thought more about, you know, _us_. I really like you, and I think we could have a real shot.”

Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected Jake to be this direct, and it didn’t help matters that he was so turned on by Jake’s singing that his erection was bulging against his short European shorts (though he had worn black to try and be more appropriately dressed for the debate).

“You have a great sense of humor,” Jake continued. “When you want to, at least. And we have share so many of the same political views. I never thought I’d meet someone with values and beliefs so similar to mine.” He reached out his hand and touched Draco’s cheek, gently stroking his way down to his cheek. “And you’re so, so attractive. I literally can’t even help myself – I always want to touch you. I want you all the time.”

Jake’s touch lit Draco’s blood on fire, increasing his desire tenfold. Eyes still closed, he breathed out unsteadily. Seeing the effect he had on Draco emboldened Jake, who leaned across the center console to kiss Draco, moving his hand from Draco’s cheek to his soft blonde hair. Draco vividly remembered how Jake kissed from the time he spent the night at Jake’s apartment. This time though, it felt much more intimate. Jake’s lips were just as soft, plump, and warm as before, but this time, instead of sweetly kissing Draco he demanded Draco’s participation. Draco meant to stop before things went too far; he had to talk to Jake properly, but this rougher treatment drove Draco to desperation and all thoughts of being honest with Jake flew out of his head. He smashed his lips against Jake’s, opening his mouth to allow Jake’s tongue to probe his mouth.

They continued to kiss for another minute or two, tongues clashing and teeth sometimes scraping, but Draco wasn’t conscious of any pain. All he could feel was the desire to finish what they’d started, which wasn’t an urge he’d ever experienced so overwhelmingly. Jake’s free hand slipped under Draco’s shirt to rub over one of his nipples, and he shuddered in Jake’s mouth. God, how was he going to walk out of the car if they stopped here?

Jake solved that dilemma for him by climbing over the center console and settling himself on Draco’s lap, knees spread on either side of Draco’s legs. Draco reached up and grabbed Jake’s shoulders, pulling him closer. On the way down, Jake’s clothed but firmly erect cock brushed up against Draco’s, and he groaned into Jake’s mouth as they continued to kiss. Jake reached down to Draco’s shorts with the clear intention of undoing the button and freeing his cock, which scared Draco. Still trembling from the touch of Jake’s lips and hands, he shook his head no until he could finally whisper it, grabbing Jake’s hands with his own to stop them from touching his cock.

Draco still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten himself in this situation, but fortunately Jake respected his decision. Instead of naked, Draco found himself pressed more firmly against the seat as Jake trapped both his hands above his shoulders. Jake pulled back just enough to meet Draco’s eyes before seductively brushing his pelvis against Draco’s shorts, meeting the base of Draco’s penis and again stoking the flame within him. Draco closed his eyes, waiting for Jake to rub up against him again, but instead Jake gripped his wrists even harder, finally releasing pressure after Draco opened his eyes. Jake cocked his head questioningly, and Draco realized he was waiting for consent. “Yes,” he murmured, moving his body wantonly beneath Jake’s.

He didn’t have to wait long. Jake immediately rutted his cock against Draco’s, nipping furiously at Draco’s neck. Draco thought vaguely of how he would have to heal those marks later. He responded to Jake’s movements, frotting himself roughly against Jake’s cock. The pressure against his own cock was blissful, even though the clothes were a bothersome barrier but one he absolutely did not want to remove. Jake moved down to Draco’s collarbone, but Draco found he wasn’t enjoying himself nearly as much as when they were kissing.

“Jake,” he said, trying to reclaim Jake’s focus. It worked. Jake looked up, and Draco’s need must have been evident on his face. Unfortunately, Jake began kissing him how he would kiss a lover – soft, sweet, and loving. Draco couldn’t let that continue. He wrenched his hands free from where Jake still held them pinned above his head and wrapped them around Jake’s back, driving Jake’s body harder against his cock. He made the kiss rougher, wetter, and hotter, trying to send them both over. Draco could feel the heat and pressure building in his cock, and he was so, so close.

Jake’s hand unexpectedly came down and slapped Draco just under his left hipbone, very close to his ass. It was enough – Draco groaned as orgasm overtook him. He arched up against Jake’s cock, and that was encouragement enough for Jake to slap him again. For one blissful moment, Draco forgot who he was with as hot come spilled out into his pants and powerful hormones overrode his senses. He was so, so relaxed and peaceful, despite the uncomfortable conversation that was sure to follow with Jake.

After a minute, Draco looked back at Jake and saw him wearing a look of smug satisfaction, probably because he had pleased Draco so well. Inwardly, he frowned. That simply wouldn’t do. Jake still hadn’t come yet, and Draco knew it would be selfish to quite literally stiff him, so he obliged Jake as he leaned forward again and put both hands on Draco’s cheeks to kiss him intimately. After a good thirty seconds of this, Draco started to fervently wish that Jake would just come already, and so he grabbed Jake around the back again and started moving their bodies together roughly once more.

This seemed to do the trick. Jake wrapped his right arm around Draco’s shoulders and started moving more erratically, his left hand still caressing Draco’s face. He breathed “I love you” in Draco’s ear and Draco’s entire body immediately froze. Jake rode out the rest of his orgasm, crying “Draco, Draco” and Draco couldn’t breathe, both out of disgust and because of how poorly he had judged the depth of Jake’s feelings.

Jake apparently hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable Draco was. He tried again to kiss Draco, but was deflected as Draco turned his head away. Hurt, Jake asked, “Draco?”

Though it went against every one of Draco’s instincts, he met Jake’s gaze. “I’m not in love with you,” he said. Being blunt would hurt Jake, but Draco didn’t have it in him to string the man along, which would definitely happen if he misinterpreted what Draco said.

It happened anyway, as Jake laughed. “I didn’t expect for you to fall in love with me right away. I’ve had a long time to feel that way about you, though.”

“No, Jake,” Draco said directly, adopting his favorite clinical, detached tone for when he meant business. Jake had heard him use it earlier tonight as he shut down those protesting free HIV testing for LGBTQ youth. “I don’t love you. I will never love you in the way you want me to. Yes, I’m attracted to you, but I only want to be your friend, nothing more.”

Draco thought his message had finally gotten through, because Jake’s face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. “Then why,” Jake asked slowly, heartbreakingly, “did you just do–” he gesticulated madly between them, still perched on Draco’s lap “what we did?”

Sighing, Draco reached up and wiped Jake’s tears away as they begin rolling down his face. He responded gently. “Like I said, I am very attracted to you. I’ve also never been with a man before, and what we did felt so much better than being with a woman that I couldn’t stop.”

Jake gave him a hopeful look, perhaps entertaining fantasies that Draco might be persuaded yet, and Draco was forced to continue with his explanation. “I knew you wanted to date me, but I was completely unaware of the depths of your feelings for me. If I knew that you cared for me so, I never would have allowed anything physical to happen. Ever.”

Crushed, Jake’s eyes started welling up again. Draco couldn’t think of anything helpful to say, so he apologized. “I’m sorry, Jake.” It wasn’t as hard as some of the apologies he’d had to make to other wizards, at least.

Draco completely understood as Jake hid his face and started to climb off of Draco. Their pants were both soaked through with come, brushing up stickily against one another. Though it was awkward as hell, Draco had no intention of losing Jake as a friend.

“Oh, Jake,” he said, grabbing Jake’s left arm as he continued trying to escape. Jake pulled back desperately, causing Draco to utter “no, no–Jake, no” as he fought to keep the other man from leaving. Draco won, drawing Jake back into his chest for a hug as tears silently ran down Jake’s face.

“Hey,” Draco said, keeping the pressure on Jake. “I still want to be friends with you. This doesn’t change anything, I promise.” Jake softly nuzzled Draco’s shoulder, and Draco let him.

“What if I don’t want to go back to the way things were? What if I _can’t_?” asked Jake, muffled by Draco’s shirt.

“Think it over,” Draco said, running his fingers lightly up and down Jake’s back in a way he thought was comforting. “Truly, I would like to stay friends with you. I don’t connect with most of these other crazy Americans, and I’d be out a debate partner.”

Jake laughed, and finally met Draco’s gaze. “I want to stay friends with you too. I can’t promise I’ll be, um, perfect about everything, though.”

Draco nodded. “I can accept that.”

Hesitatingly, Jake ventured, “Did you still want pizza? Or would it be best to call it a night?”

“I should probably get back home,” Draco said. “Plus, we’re both a mess.”

“A hot mess,” Jake laughed. “I’m sorry too, Draco, especially for pushing you into this.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Draco said, making small motions with his legs to make Jake realize he should get off now.

As Jake moved over, he asked, “So are we still on for tomorrow, then?”

“Of course,” Draco replied, wishing that Jake wouldn’t notice if he wordlessly performed a Cleaning Charm on his sticky shorts. “We’re not going to beat USC on environmental regulations without practice.”

“Did you know,” asked Jake, starting the car, “that there are over 700 different chemical agents that can be used in the process of fracking?”

“No, I did not,” said Draco, settling back into conversation that always came easy with Jake. “You’ll have to tell me where you found that source…”        

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jake sings "Jesus of Suburbia" by Green Day.


	8. Make You Come Alive

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Preparing for the USC debate with Jake went rather swimmingly, Draco thought, considering the heartbreak he’d put the man though the night before. Usually, they would get some sort of drink afterwards, or even coffee if neither felt like drinking a chihuahua’s weight in hard liquor. Tonight, though, Jake had buggered off with an excuse. Draco was disappointed, but not surprised. He could sense that Jake wanted to stay close with him as friends, but knew that he was also afraid of pushing Draco too far again. Draco had noticed Jake staring at him more than once during their research session, and once, caught him blushing. One guess as to what he was thinking about _then_.

It was still only just the beginning of the third week of the semester, and Draco was bored shitless, as the Americans would say. There was simply nothing left to do. When he was more forgiving than usual, Draco hung out with Steve. He quickly decided his roommate was most effective in small doses; say, a half an hour once or twice a week. Research for Debate Club could be completed in 2 or so hours, and Draco was absolutely unwilling to make a commitment to another club. After completing everything on each of his class syllabi three weeks in advance, Draco gave in and went to his professors’ office hours.

At least he would get a stimulating conversation out of visiting the professors, or so Draco thought. He penciled all the office hours into his calendar, and visited five different professors in four different days. On Monday, he found out that his Brit-Lit English professor was interested in Brit-Lit only, which did not parallel Draco’s research interests in the slightest. It was the same deal with his Digital Literature professor on Tuesday, but with one key difference: she scared the hell out of Draco. Apparently, students had never just done simple conversations before. On Wednesday, he was afraid to go and meet his Psychology professor, but in the end he had a very nice conversation with her about Freud and Psychoanalysis. Re-energized, Draco went into Thursday hoping to really hit it off with his Children’s Literature professor simply because he was so, so brilliant in class. However, Draco found him to be removed and distant, having been pushed out the door after only 15 minutes of conversation.

There was only one professor left to visit that Friday: Otarres. Draco loved his Gothic Lit class, but if he had learned one thing after his experience with the Children’s Lit professor, it was that someone could be utterly amazing in class and horrible in person. Bright and early at 11am, Draco walked down the halls of the English department and went to find Otarres’s door. It was open. He knocked lightly on the wood with a tentative smile, and Otarres looked up from his desk to greet Draco with a wide grin. “Hi! Come on in,” he welcomed.

Draco walked in and took a seat, marveling at Otarres’s office. As did all the other English professors, he had two tall bookshelves that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Unlike the other professors, though, Otarres had them filled completely with children’s picture books, chapter books, and toys of all shapes, sizes, and colors. They were bulging with color and chaos. It was simply a goldmine, Draco thought, for any kid under the age of 13. Hell, he was aching to go over there and start investigating. In addition to the two standard bookshelves, Otarres had added a smaller bookshelf behind his desk filled with books on theory–Draco could see Foucault staring at him from across the room–and a second by the door that was stuffed with still more books, though Draco thought these ones were for adolescents. He was surrounded by chaos, but it was wonderful and felt entirely welcoming.

Draco looked back to Otarres, who had been watching Draco take in his office. “It’s a great big mess, huh? I meant to clean it up at the beginning of this week, but then I gave your class a writing exercise and then _this_ happened.” He gestured towards the staggering pile on his desk, which was covered all sorts of odds and ends. It was no wonder, thought Draco, that it took so long for assignments to be graded. Otarres was busy.

“No, not at all,” Draco said, continuing to gaze around. “I love your office. It’s brilliant.”

Otarres laughed. “I’m glad you think so! Sometimes I just about get swallowed by all this mess in here. But I love it too, because I get to read children’s picture books for a living and flesh out the implications within them. It absolutely makes my next door neighbor Professor Bales crazy. He doesn’t think Children’s Literature is important enough to warrant study.”

He ragged on Bales jokingly, and made Draco smile. “I didn’t know you taught Children’s Lit too. I’m in Samot’s 502 this semester, and it’s fantastic.”

“Yeah,” said Otarres, leaning back in his desk chair, “I focused on several different genres during my PhD program, and Children’s Lit and Gothic Lit were two of them. I wanted to be versatile to increase my chances of getting a job.”

Draco nodded. That made a lot of sense, no matter which field you were trying to get into. “Speaking of jobs, would you happen to know if there are any positions for students open in the English department? Even with classes, I have way too much time on my hands.”

Otarres raised his hand and stroked his chin, gazing at his overfilled bookshelves as he thought. “We’ve filled all the department tutoring positions for the semester, I’m sorry to say. Have you looked online for other campus positions?”

“Briefly,” Draco admitted. He wasn’t so interested in the various food service positions that any able bodied individual could fill. “I was more of looking for a professional development opportunity.”

Otarres’s eyes lit up. “Actually, I did hear something earlier this week. One of the professors in Rhetoric is on the Board of Directors for a non-profit organization, and they were looking to hire grant writing interns.”

“I’m not too familiar with grant writing, but that sounds like a great opportunity,” Draco said, enthusiastically but cautiously.

“I’d be more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation – a quick email might even be enough. Marram is a super nice guy, and I think you’d do really well in this job.”

“Really?” asked Draco, stunned a professor he’d only had for three weeks would be willing to write him a letter of recommendation. “But I haven’t even been in your class that long…” he trailed off.

Otarres laughed. “I can already tell what kind of student and what kind of person you are, Draco. You’ve been to every class after the add/drop deadline, actively participate in class, and your in-class writing responses are not only interesting, but concise, clear, and well-structured. Those are all excellent skills to have for grant writing.”

Words were still eluding Draco. He was at the top of his class in Hogwarts and had earned stellar NEWT scores, but no one had ever praised him so highly; Snape was much more likely to provide back-handed compliments.

“Also,” continued Otarres, “I’m the undergraduate adviser. I was on the committee that admitted you to the University, and I read all of your application essays. I know you’re a skilled writer–you really benefitted from community college.” 

Draco flushed. He’d never been to community college, not really. That was just part of the application he’d had to forge to be admitted to the University. However, he did have more extensive training in writing than the average student. Lucius had provided him with a private tutor up until he went off to Hogwarts, and McGonagall and Snape were never shy about pushing him to develop stronger writing skills. From fourth year on, he actually tutored writing – but only for students who were willing to keep it quiet. Couldn’t have that ruining his reputation.

His admission essays, on the other hand, were 100% real, though Draco had to be vague on some of the finer details. For example, for “What was the greatest challenge you’ve faced thus far, and how did you overcome it?” Draco wrote about joining the Death Eaters and following Voldemort, receiving the Dark Mark, and being ordered to kill innocent people. He assumed that the admissions committee would just assume that he’d been in some sort of gang, and left it at that. On Monday, Draco had felt Otarres’s eyes scrutinize his Dark Mark. He’d supposed that Otarres would just think of it as an interesting tattoo, but knowing that Otarres had read his admissions essay (which was quite personal, he might add) caused Draco to think that perhaps his professor had ulterior motives in helping him. Draco didn’t feel insulted–he knew that he had each of the skills the professor had named– and wasn’t complaining because it was rare that someone could see past the morally questionable things he’d done and help him with a second chance.

“Thank you, sir,” Draco finally managed. His throat had constricted painfully upon hearing Otarres say such nice things about him, and also realizing that his professor might indeed know him more intimately than he originally thought.

“No problem,” answered Otarres cheerfully, reaching for a book of theory perched precariously on the added shelf behind him. “Say, did you have a chance yet to read that chapter of Haggerty I assigned for Monday?”

In fact, Draco had. He found it fascinating, and was quickly becoming enchanted with the Gothic. It was present in every person, and only through Gothic fiction were some of humans’ more lurid desires allowed to be expressed. Draco was learning quickly under Otarres’s tutelage that even perfectly normal texts could be read as pieces of Gothic fiction.

“I have,” Draco said, “What did you think of that part where Haggerty talks about how once the characters, and the viewer, have been exposed to those Gothicized events or settings, they can never go back to the same version of “normalcy” they experienced before?”

And with that, Otarres launched into a discussion of one of his favorite topics, having proudly labeled himself a fanboy of Haggerty in class earlier that day. Draco stayed with Otarres talking about literary theory for another 45 minutes, and was as comfortable and at ease as he’d ever been in America. Draco wouldn’t have said he was _happy_ , per say, but it was an encouraging improvement from those former dark days when he wasn’t able to get out of bed.

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Predictably, Harry, Cale, and Chris were hungover for Nate’s mandatory Saturday morning practice. Harry could have taken a Pepper Up Potion, but felt as if he should suffer in solidarity with his fellow outfielders. Besides, if his two mates saw that he wasn’t suffering _enough_ , they’d try to force him to go even harder the following Friday night. He barely made it through practice–Nate had put them through a particularly grueling set of drills, and then made them stay an extra hour to run every situation he could think of involving runners on base–and was quite eager to go home and get back to sleep.

Nate, unfortunately, had other ideas. “Team meeting after practice!” he shouted, as he, Mike, and Zee executed their final (quite perfect) double play.

“What do you mean, ‘team meeting’?” howled Zee. “We’ve already _been_ meeting for the past two and a half hours! Bro, some of us got lives we want to get back to!”

“Baseball is your life!” retorted Nate, “Or at least it is when you play for me.” He smirked, and yelled “Bring it in!” As the team jogged across the infield together, he bumped Zee’s shoulder and said, “Zeets, you’re going to love the announcement. Extra commitments and all.”

Zee groaned, turning to Becky Lou as they reached home plate. “Can you believe this guy? Why do I even stay on this team?”

“You know why,” said Harry, having caught up from the outfield. “Because you like to ‘Joe Buck Yourself’”

The team roared in laughter, Nels dropping her catcher’s mask on the ground in her mirth.

Becky Lou batted her eyelashes at Harry and said, “Speaking of bucking yourself –” while making a lewd gesture.

Harry immediately flushed, and Cale interrupted Becky Lou before she could go on. “Now now, you naughty old bint, Nate had an announcement to make, and I for one actually want to hear it.”

“Damn straight,” said Nate, clapping Cale hard on the back. Harry could see him wince. “Let’s go over to the bleachers for this, though. I have some exciting handouts for you all…”

There was a collective groan. No handout they had received from Nate in the past could be considered anywhere near exciting. Honestly, Harry was surprised he hadn’t prepared a full-out PowerPoint presentation (While drunk last night, Chris told Harry about Nate’s debriefings as the end of the season, and how they were usually more painful than the entire season).

“What are they this time, our permission forms, _Coach_?” grumbled Zee. Nate chose to ignore him, though Mike and José snickered.

They trudged over to the bleachers wearily in the afternoon sun, Harry feeling his headache start to return. José was brave enough to pull out his cell phone, and Nate snatched it out of his hand almost as fast as a Summoning Charm.

With his half-awake team glaring up at him, Nate finally got to the point. He opened up a folder, and true to his word, pulled out a stack of handouts which he passed to Zee to distribute.  

“‘San Diego Youth Baseball/Softball Association,’” read Mike, looking over his paper. “Nate, what the actual hell? Have you lost your mind?”

Nate grinned. “Yup, the SDYBSA. My brother Danny founded it; obviously he lives in California. He’s on a mission to ‘bring back the ball’ because not enough low-income kids have access to sports.”

José nodded. “And there’s a ton of low-income kids in California. Why didn’t he do this up in L.A. though? There’s more of a need there than in suburbia San Diego.”

“Honey, he probably lives in San Diego,” snorted Becky Lou. “With the pollution in L.A., you can’t blame him.”

“Exactly,” said Nate. “He figured that he might as well help the kids in his community, and SDYBSA has been going strong for the past 3 or so years. But now they’re expanding, and Danny needs more coaches and more fundraising.”

“And this affects us how, exactly?” drawled Zee, crossing his arms. “Please tell us that you’re not volunteering the whole team to spend the summer in San Diego, for god’s sake, coaching a bunch of snot nosed kids.”

“Got it in one!” Nate enthused. Harry saw some of his teammates’ jaws drop around him.

“Nate, I think you really have lost your mind,” Mike said. “What about our jobs? It’s not like we can all just pick up and take a road trip across the country for the _entire summer_.”

Everyone was expecting Nate’s smile to droop as Mike brought him back to reality, but instead he grinned even wider. “I worked it out with the New York CFBA. They want the exposure of having their baseball players coach in Southern California, and are fully compensating us for the whole trip.”

“I’m game,” said Harry. “Sounds fantastic. So what, are we going to each get our own team or something?”

“Not so fast,” chided Nate. “There are some stipulations. First off, unless everyone agrees, we can’t go.”

“Why not?” asked Zee. “I don’t like palm trees, or kids for that matter.”

“The New York CFBA is putting together a whole summer league for out of state teams to fully milk the publicity and positive press that comes along with us coaching. Our entire team has to play weekly, and we can only add one more person on our roster: a pitcher that can sub out for any other position in case of an injury.”

“Jesus,” said Nels. “Don’t want much, do they?”

“I know it’s a bit of a stretch,” said Nate. “But I was really hoping we could all commit to this. You can tell your employers to get in touch with the CFBA if they have any questions about the legitimacy of the trip or anything.”

“Also,” said Cale, who had been largely quiet up until now. “It’s a great team building opportunity for us, as well. During summer ball, we all usually drift apart.”

“Agreed,” said Chris, “But let’s all clear it with our jobs –”

“–and spouses,” broke in José.

“–before we commit to anything.”

Nate nodded. “Please do. If we do this, I want everyone to be fully onboard with the situation. If we do go, then yes, Harry, you’ll each have your own team to coach. You might be coaching either baseball or softball, depending on need, and you’ll have other responsibilities as well. Zee, I already know I’m sending you right to Administration. Can’t have you corrupting the small children.”

The tension was broken, and most of the team laughed. José, Chris, and Zee still looked concerned, but others, like Harry and Cale, were visibly excited.

“So maybe you all can try and have an answer by Monday, then? Our first game is at 4pm and I think we’d all feel better if this was squared away first.”

“I’ll start taking a list now of everyone who already knows they want to participate,” said Cale, turning his handout over and stealing Nate’s pen. He started writing down his name.

“Sign me up as well,” said Harry, lightly elbowing him.

“And me,” said Nels. “This is exactly what I needed for this summer.”

“Don’t forget to put me on there as well,” said Nate. “Okay, so with you three already onboard, that just leaves Chris, Becky Lou, Zee, José, and Mike.”

“Can we _finally_ go now?” Zee pleaded.

“Yes,” said Nate. “Make sure you clean up the dugout! Don’t you give me that look, Mike, I saw you spitting sunflower seeds in there earlier. And make sure you’re well rested for Monday!”

Before Nate could think of another reason to stay longer, the team–showing more excitement than they had all day–jumped off the bleachers and fled to collect their scattered gear. Harry and Cale stayed behind with Nate, Cale still writing their names down.

“I sure hope this works out,” said Nate, finally allowing his worry to show through. “My brother was really excited about this whole deal, and it would be great to finally get a bit of a vacation.”

Harry laughed. “They’ll come around. The whole summer would be such a blast, honestly. I haven’t done any traveling in America yet, and California is supposed to be beautiful.”

“Sure is,” said Cale, a nostalgic look on his face. “That was the first place I came to in America, and I never wanted to leave.”

“What happened?” asked Nate and Harry simultaneously, Nate collecting the discarded handouts and placing them carefully back in his folder.

“I took a little trip out East, and while I was touring New York, this absolute nutter saw me playing catch with my mate and tried to recruit me to play baseball,” Cale said mischievously.

Nate threw back his head and laughed, while Harry chuckled knowingly.

“I asked him if he’d lost the plot, and he told me that his team desperately needed a right fielder. He didn’t seem to care that I was only visiting at the time. Seemed pretty convinced that I’d fall in love with New York City and never leave.”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” grinned Nate, catching Cale’s eye flirtatiously.

“Not at all,” said Cale. “I fell, but it wasn’t for New York City!”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. Would Nate catch the same hidden implication, or was Harry just going mad from too much liquor and not enough sleep?

Apparently he wasn’t. Nate blushed, quickly hiding his face behind his folder. “Um, I’d better be off as well,” he hemmed, “I found out the hard way it’s not best to leave my poor dogs at home for so long.”

Curious, Harry tried to make eye contact with Nate, but he sped away like Cale had lit a fire underneath his ass. After he’d gotten his bag together, Nate looked back and called “Don’t forget your uniforms!” and continued rocketing out of there.

Harry laughed, trying to ease the tension that had just appeared in Cale’s shoulders. “Really, we’ve been roommates for how long now and you haven’t told me that you’ve got a thing for our coach? Merlin’s sake, Cale.”

Cale fixed him with a withering look. “Who the bloody hell is Merlin? And I haven’t even told Chris yet, you wanker, and I’ve lived with him since I came to New York.”

“Uh, mate?” asked Harry, “Did you mean to just do that, or were you actually planning a better way to tell Nate that you, er, _want_ him?”

“A little bit of both,” Cale sighed. “I kind of wanted to hint at it and see how he reacted. I think he’s straight.”

“You never know,” said Harry mildly. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza–I’m starving. Can’t nap properly if I’m hungry.”

“Right on, mate,” laughed Cale. “I hope we do end up going out to California this summer. Nate won’t know what hit him.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harry said, clapping Cale on the shoulder. “And just so you know, if you try to get me drunk again the night before practice or a game, I’m going to take the mickey out of you so badly in front of Nate…”

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	9. Land of Make Believe

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Nobody knew what the verdict of the team’s summer plans would be before Monday. Harry and Cale were anxious and hoping for yes’s across the board, while Chris had grudgingly gotten cleared with his job because of the eager persistence he was faced with at home. Finally, Monday’s ballgame came, and the roommates –very much sober–put on their brand new uniforms and made their way to field.

Nate was standing by the dugout, accosting each one of his players as they went to put down their ball bag and start arranging their helmets, batting gloves, and water. Only Becky Lou and José had arrived so far, and looked as if they’d been cleared for the trip.

Harry, Cale, and Chris walked up, and Nate pounced on them immediately. “Okay, Harry and Cale are a yes, so Chris? Yes or no?” He pointed the pen at Chris in a rather threatening way.

Resigned, Chris said, “Yes.”

Nate grinned, and caught Harry’s eye. “Almost there! As long as we can clear it with Zee and Mike, we’re golden.”

“High five, mate,” Harry said, putting up his hand. Nate eagerly slapped it, and Harry noticed how his eyes quickly flashed to Cale as he did so.

Nels rolled in, wheeling her enormous bag full of catcher’s gear, and José immediately pulled her away to confirm the hand signals they’d be using to designate pitches.

“Damn Zee and Mike,” growled Nate, still pacing around with his clipboard. “I should have never trusted them to be on time. On Wednesday we’re meeting a full hour and a half before the game."

Harry turned to Cale. Though he was anxious to hear the final verdict, he had learned the hard way it wasn’t smart to stick around when Nate was annoyed with something. “Say, want to start warming up now, mate?”

“About time you asked, bloody wanker,” said Cale, slapping Harry on the butt with his mitt. He bent to pick up a spare baseball before slipping out onto the field.

“Better watch out,” Harry smirked, grabbing his own mitt and running after Cale. “You’re going to make Nate jealous if you don’t stop staring at my very fine arse.”

“Shut it, you,” said Cale, running half backwards and chucking the ball at Harry. “Wait, aren’t we even going to stretch first?”

“Eh, we’ll stretch when the rest of them get out here,” Harry said. “Stop looking at Nate and be ready to catch the damn ball.”

Eventually, Mike and Zee made it down to the field, and Nate practically choked them in rage about being late and anticipation about their answers.

“Calm down,” smirked Zee. “We’re both in.” He shared a glance with Mike, and both of them firmly nodded.

“Great!” said Nate, eagerly checking them off his list. “That’s everyone then. Go get set up – we’re going to stretch now."

Nate grabbed his mitt and went off on his merry way towards right field where the rest of the team was lolling around. He turned again, though, as the two middle infielders were putting on their cleats, and said, “Next time you come late to a game, I’m trading you in for two of the Void A-Roids – at least they can show up on time.”

Ignoring their revolted expressions, Nate pumped his fist in the air as he ran out to the rest of the team. “We’re going to California!”

Harry let out a whoop, followed up by Cale. Everyone else had their game face on.

“Sweetheart, we can talk about travel plans after we whoop some Panda ass,” said Becky Lou. “Come here now, and let me draw on your face.”

“Um, what?” Harry asked, backing away slowly.

“Sit down and shaddup.” Becky Lou came closer with a tube of what looked like black lipstick. She had two dark black lines already drawn on her face, about on her cheekbones, and Harry was slightly relieved. It was over quickly.

“There, honey,” Becky Lou proclaimed, “Now you can officially Joe Buck Yourself!”

“Hardy har har,” said Harry, distracted by the head umpire coming over to find Nate. “I’m just going to, yeah…” he trailed off, looking frantically around for Cale.

Nate, the umpires, and the coach for the Pandas went to home plate to discuss the ground rules, and the team finished warming up. Nate had prepared them thoroughly over the last week; they really just needed to make sure their muscles were stretched and their arms were loose.

“Alright, Bucks! Time to take the field!” Nate shouted, jogging towards first base. There was a lot of hand claps and ass slaps, and everyone eventually made it to their designated position.

In center field, Harry was stiff with anticipation. This did not feel like playing a game of Quidditch. There, the action started right away as he furiously scouted for the Snitch while dodging Bludgers and out of control Chasers. Here, the pitcher controlled the action by putting the ball in play. José wound up, and Harry found himself instinctively stepping back as the ball crossed home plate. He had to take a deep breath to calm down, telling himself that he wasn’t guaranteed any action, and that it was important to stay focused as to not miss things.

Neither team scored in the first three innings, and in the bottom of the fourth Harry was up to bat again, Nate having placed him second in the batting order. The rational for that was because he could bunt well, place good base hits, and watch anything that wasn’t in his strike zone. He’d hit the ball in his first at bat, but was thrown out at first by a particularly determined third baseman. This time, there was a runner on second with no outs, and Nate gave him the signal from down the third base line to bunt.

Harry stepped into the box and set out like he was going to hit normally. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the evil third baseman take a step up, and vowed to try and push the bunt down the first base side. The pitcher wound up, and just as he was about to release the ball Harry got into his bunting position and tried desperately to judge the location of the ball as it came in. Too high. He pulled back just in time to avoid the umpire calling a strike on him. Damn; that kind of blew the plan. He looked down at Nate again to see the same signal: bunt.

Harry took a step out of the box and did a practice swing to loosen up his muscles. Becky Lou was on second, and Harry could see that she knew Nate’s plan. Time to execute it. He assumed his regular batting stance again, but this time the corners crept up just a little more. The pitcher delivered a precious meatball, and Harry bunted it just in front of the plate. It should have been the catcher’s responsibility to get to, while the second baseman covered first. Harry didn’t pay attention to logistics as he pounded down the baseline. Nate had given Becky Lou the signal to steal, betting that Harry would lay the bunt down, and she was already almost at third by the time the bunt was recovered by the off-balance catcher.

That was the desired result of the play, but then Bucks got even luckier. The catcher made the bad choice to try and throw Harry out at first even though he was practically already there, and the second baseman covering the bag missed the ball! The right fielder went to chase after it, and Becky Lou charged for home while Harry sprinted towards second. She made it safely, and Nate held Harry at second even though he might have been able to make it to third on their error. Nate chose the time and place to take risks.    

Besides the excitement on the bases, Harry didn’t get too much more action throughout the duration of his first official baseball game. In the top of the fifth, there was a fly ball hit to left field, which Harry directed Chris to take, and in the top of the seventh, the middle infielders and Nate turned a pretty double play, essentially shutting down the Pandas. The Bucks scored again in the bottom of the sixth, so they were leading 2-0. José killed their offense in the top of the eighth and ninth, and so the Bucks skipped their last bats as they lined up on the field to shake hands with the Pandas and say “good game.”

Afterwards, Nate gathered up his team with a proud face and a tear in his eye, and proclaimed, “I think we’re even stronger than we were last year. Not counting chickens or anything, but we might have a chance at first place…” he seemed overcome with emotion, heavily reminding Harry of Oliver Wood.

Becky Lou smirked. “It’s Harry; he’s our good luck charm.”

Harry blushed furiously as the others laughed and made cocky comments, but Nate recovered himself to interrupt with, “I’ve praised you all enough, and we’ll never be first if we don’t work for it. Practice, tomorrow 5:30pm, be there. Now go home and get some rest.”

“That’s Nate’s favorite line,” said Cale knowledgably, and loudly, as he and Harry walked away together. “But good game, though, Harry! You’ve come a long way since tryouts.”

Harry laughed. “Oh Merlin, I remember that. I was absolute rubbish; don’t even know why Nate took me on at first. But after today I think I get it.”

“As you very well ought to,” Cale sniffed, discreetly looking over his shoulder for Nate. “Now, how about we drink Chris under the table again tonight? Plenty of time to recover from hangovers before practice tomorrow?"

“Only because I’m in a good mood,” Harry conceded. “You’re on.”

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 Otarres emailed Draco the good news on Sunday night: Merram, without even meeting Draco, had hired him for the grant writing internship. Draco knew that Otarres’s email to Merram had essentially been a letter of rec, but he highly suspected that Otarres had included several samples of his in-class writings.

He wrote back immediately, thanking Otarres profusely, and then sent a polite email to Merram asking when would be a good time for them to meet. Draco was almost afraid to get too excited, because he still couldn’t be sure if it was for real or not.

Merram replied on Monday morning, asking Draco if he could come that afternoon. Draco could. He reluctantly put some of his nice pre-online-shopping-excursion clothes, and headed down to Merram’s office.

Before he could even knock, the door swung open. Merram positively beamed at him. “Draco! Come on in.”

Draco smiled politely and stepped into the office, turning around to shake Merram’s hand. “Thank you sir, for the internship. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

“Not a problem,” said Merram, grasping Draco’s hand tightly before sitting down in his desk chair and gesturing for Draco to sit down. “In the past I’ve hired from my upper-division Rhetoric students, but this semester it just didn’t seem like any of them would be a good fit. That’s when I start borrowing from the English department,” Merram continued, beaming again at Draco. “I was so glad when I got that email from Otarres this weekend. He even sent me some of your work samples.”

Draco’s suspicions had been confirmed, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then Merram went on, “You might even think about taking on a minor in Rhetoric. If you want to go into Professional Writing, learning to do rhetorical analysis would be really beneficial.”

“I’ve thought about it,” said Draco, which was true. “Is it too terribly different from English?”

“Analysis is analysis,” answered Marram. “You’ll use the same skills. But rhetorical analysis has a different focus than literary analysis. I think you’d adjust well, based on the samples I saw.”

“I’ll definitely think about it,” said Draco thoughtfully.

“It would make you an even better grant writer,” said Merram, “Which is probably what we should talk about now.”

He proceeded to spend the next hour giving Draco an overview of the process: the research entailed to find funders, the level of knowledge he would need to have about the company and its programs, and, of course, the several different components to the actual grant. Draco was to come by the actual nonprofit organization later that week to officially start working. Draco didn’t need the money, but he was delighted anyway to find out that the internship was paid. It felt more like a real job that way.

His first week went really well: Draco had a knack for doing the research required to find different Foundations and funders that offered grants, and was even brave enough to start learning the processes to apply for government grants (they required the most paperwork). In his second week, Draco made it his mission to learn everything possible about his employer by attending programs, discovering the role of each staff member, and meeting the clients served by the organization. The following weeks led Draco to start writing the individual parts of the grant, compiling all of the necessary information, and submitting the proposals for review. Soon, it all began to blend together, and Draco had the rhythm down. He could no longer do his homework three weeks in advance, but maintained perfect grades anyway.

Halfway through spring break, Draco decided that it was time for a reward. He’d been admiring muggle body piercings since his arrival in August, and finally mustered up the courage to have one done. Now an expert at surfing the net, Draco went on Yelp and looked up the best piercing places in San Diego. He wanted the one at the very top of the list: Enigma Professional Piercing Studio. There were hundreds of reviews, but Draco read them all because it simply wouldn’t do to let an untrustworthy person near his body with a needle. For good measure, he went and read reviews of the other highly rated piercing studios.

After two solid hours of reading and thinking, Draco concluded that Enigma was his best bet. The muggles who’d gone there before said it was expensive, but that the piercers were top notch, the place was clean, and the jewelry was high quality. Expensive wasn’t a problem for Draco and he also especially liked that Enigma only did piercings, instead of both piercings and tattoos like all the other places he’d looked at.

Draco didn’t let himself hem and haw over the decision like he might have done a year ago. He wanted it, and wasn’t going to let his more worried side, the one that was afraid of the needle, change his mind.

He made it down to Enigma’s closer location, took a deep breath, and walked into the shop. Fortunately, it was pretty deserted early on Wednesday afternoon. There were different cases full of jewelry, most of which went in mysterious places that Draco could not even begin to fathom. He slowly made his way to the front counter, and looked down at the smaller, non-threatening pieces.

A man came out from the back room to stand behind the counter and said, “Welcome to Engima. What can we do for you today?”

Draco momentarily lost the ability to speak. The man had several facial piercings on his lips, nose, eyebrow, and his ears were huge with large black circles. Draco had seen some of his peers walk around with those, but they didn’t seem that popular. He had on a T-shirt and shorts, and tattoos covered his chest, arms, and legs. Suddenly, instead of nervous anticipation, Draco felt panicked. He wasn’t going to look like that when he was done, was he? Was getting one body piercing the gateway drug into full-scale body art?

Fortunately, the man smiled. He seemed to understand Draco’s apprehension. “So this is your first rodeo, eh?”

“Yes,” Draco managed.

“Did you have something in mind, or did you want to just take a peek around, maybe look at some our piercers’ portfolios?”

He didn’t know what possessed him in that moment, but Draco heard himself say, “I’d like to get my septum done.” Immediately, he lost the ability to speak again.

The man smiled again, pointing out the two choices and explaining the pros and cons of each one. Draco definitely wanted to be able to hide the piercing, so he went with the silver retainer even though it wasn’t as pretty. After providing his ID, filling out paperwork, and initialing the jewelry that would be sent through the cleaner, Draco was trying not to nervously wring his hands.

The piercer came out then, and said, “Septum?”

Draco nodded. He was tattooed and pierced as well, but not nearly as much as the clerk.

“Hi, my name’s Karl. Come on back.”

Draco nervously followed Karl behind the counter and into the back room, where there was a sink, a mirror, a sterilizer, a few waiting chairs, and an exam table quite like the ones in muggle hospitals.

“Don’t be so nervous,” said Karl. “A lot of people say that this one is really painless, though your eyes might water a bit.”

Draco nodded again.

“The cleaning is the worst part, I think,” said Karl, opening up the jewelry sterilizer and showing Draco how the black line was overwhelmingly on the “Pass” side of the packet he had previously initialed. “It smells awful.”

“Sit down for me?” Draco sat on the end of the table, taking deep breaths. Karl took a white gauzy mesh out of the sterilizer as well and started cleaning the inside of Draco’s nose with it.

“So first I’m going to take a hollow tube and a toothpick to find your sweet spot,” Karl said, still swabbing. “Then I’ll replace the toothpick with the back of the needle, and check again to make sure I’m in the right place. Then I’ll push the needle through, pause there for a second, and then slip the retainer in. It’s super quick.” 

Draco must have unconsciously made a face, because Karl soothed, “I’ll talk you through it. Lie down for me?”

He obliged, self-consciously crossing his arms over his stomach, and Karl showed him the toothpick and hollow tube. “Move your head a little to the left, and tilt your chin back a bit more?” Draco did, feeling a small prick in his nose.

“I didn’t really expect it to be that high up,” Draco said, having miraculously recovered his voice. “Is that normal?”

“Yup, yours is even a little lower than average,” Karl said. “Okay, I’m going to feel with the back of the needle now.” That only took a second, and finally he said, “Take a big, deep breath in for me?” Draco did. “Now let it out slowly.” As he did, Karl smoothly pushed the needle through Draco’s nose. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt nearly at all. It was like getting pinched in a tender place, but Draco’s eyes didn’t water at all.

“I’m going to put the retainer in now,” Karl said. “Take another deep breath? Okay, let it out.”

A second later, the retainer was in. Relieved, Draco sat up and turned to look in the mirror. For a minute, he almost didn’t recognize himself, and then he experienced a brief moment of disappointment because it didn’t look nearly as good as he thought it would. Breathing deeply, Draco reminded himself that it takes time to get used to changing things about one’s appearance, and also that this was a retainer, not the most aesthetically beautiful piece of jewelry. He told himself again that he’d get used to it after a few days. At least it didn’t hurt.

Draco turned away from the mirror, and Karl was smiling. He said, “Do you want me to flip it up for you now?”

“Yes,” Draco said, walking forward and allowing Karl to gently situate the retainer.

“Done!” Karl said, satisfied. “No one will even know it’s there unless they look directly up your nose.”

Finally, Draco smiled. “Thanks, mate,” he said. “I really appreciate it. That barely hurt at all.”

“I’m glad,” said Karl. “Give us a call if you have any more questions.”

He led Draco out to the counter before disappearing in the back again, and the clerk gave Draco a handout on aftercare and a bag of sea salt before explaining cleaning procedures. Draco paid, tipped, and left. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes overall.

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The rest of the spring passed easily and comfortably for Draco. He continued to excel at his grant writing internship, steadily earning the respect and confidence of Merram while also getting used to his new septum piercing. Draco started fretting about what he was going to do all summer, but Merram approached him in the beginning of May and said that he’d recommended Draco to one of his friends who ran a nonprofit and was looking to hire someone for fundraising, specifically grant writing. The man’s name was Danny, and he’d founded the San Diego Youth Baseball/Softball Association to ‘bring back the ball.’ Draco interviewed with Danny right after finals week, and he was thrilled to get the job.

Danny wanted Draco to start in the last week of May in order to get oriented to the company before the New York baseball players arrived in early June and began coaching. Danny had a couple specifications that were a little strange for a grant writer. First, Draco was to learn how to play both baseball and softball, and then possibly join a team if he made enough progress. Second, he was expected to work closely with the New York baseball players, because the organization needed help and some would be assisting in the fundraising department with Draco. Danny also noted that he reserved the right to add more to Draco’s duties if things got really busy, but also specified that Draco would be compensated well if that happened. All in all, Draco was relieved for the summer break and excited for his new job.

Harry’s spring was also going really well, particularly because he felt more relaxed and happy since he’d been after the war ended. Purpose had been restored to his life. His baseball team “Joe Buck Yourself” took home the New York CFBA first place trophy, with no small thanks to Nate’s commitment, diligence, and willingness to make the team practice on off days. To Harry, it was even better than winning the House Cup at Hogwarts. He’d been close to his fellow Gryffindors, but spent a great deal of his free time with teammates. Cale was probably his best mate in America, though Harry still hadn’t managed to convince him to make a real move on Nate, and they still went drinking with Chris every Friday night while making a real effort not to walk into Saturday morning practice wasted.

The end of the season meant moving to California, and Harry was pumped. He started extensively reading teaching theory, as well as rulebooks for both baseball and softball. Being prepared was important to Harry because he wanted to do the best job possible teaching the kids how to play ball. He often exchanged owls with Ron and Hermione, and they were happy that he was happy, if not particularly thrilled to be parted from him. In all honesty, Harry didn’t miss the Wizarding World. It was nice to be around others who saw him as _him_ instead of as their Savior. Also, he felt like he could really make a difference in the lives of the children they were going out to help. California was only a bus ride away...

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	10. Dream of Californication

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Draco’s first week with the San Diego Youth Baseball/Softball Association (which everyone seemed to call Triple B, or ‘bring back the ball,’ for short) wasn’t an eventful one. Danny introduced him to other staff members that worked in “base,” or the organization headquarters, and helped Draco start researching possible Foundations to target. He was provided with past grant proposals that Triple B had submitted, and after only a few minutes of glancing over them, concluded that Triple B was in desperate need of his assistance. It was a good thing that Danny hired him.

Even though Draco knew he had a ton of work ahead of him, there was a part of him that was insatiably excited to meet the New York baseball players. Draco had been longing to touch and be touched ever since the episode in Jake’s car, and was secretly hoping that some of the new coaches would be hot and gay, or at least hot and bisexual. He tried to remind himself that it wasn’t in his job description to go chasing around what were essentially going to be his co-workers, and almost succeeded. Draco’s mind kept going back to the Quidditch changing rooms, and the fantastically muscled but athletically built men toweling off around him. He’d always tried not to let his eyes linger, but somehow, there was a certain messy haired, green eyed menace that always captured his attention…

The last weekend of May passed dreadfully slowly, but Draco was glad of the calm before the storm. He just knew that life was going to get really busy when the baseball players came into town. Also, there was that pesky stipulation about actually learning how to play the sport. Draco had grown up with Quiddich; it came naturally to him. He wasn’t thrilled about having to learn a whole new game, especially one designed by muggles. Draco was especially disappointed that the videos on YouTube hadn’t even done a proper job of explaining how baseball was played. He’d been half-hoping to go in on Monday with some small semblance of knowing what he was doing.

On Monday morning, Draco woke up bright and early at 8:30am. The team practice was supposed to be over at 10am, but he wanted to get there at least a half an hour early to get a little bit of intel on the nine people he was going to have to interact with for the rest of the summer. Draco threw on his favorite pair of blue European shorts and matched them with a creamy white shirt. Yes, maybe he would operate on the assumption that there was a hot gay baseball player who would want to ravish him. At least the thought motivated him to slurp down some coffee and Apparate out right on time at 9:25am.

Draco landed in the scrubby desert area behind the baseball fields, grimacing as he nearly stepped on one of the very prevalent San Diego sun lizards. He found a little pathway out of the wilderness and made a beeline for the field that had a ginormous bus parked next to it. Their coach must have hauled them off the bus and right on the baseball field as soon as they got into town. Draco almost thought it was cruel, and then reflected on the fact that their team was number one in the league. Clearly they worked to maintain their standing, but Draco had serious reservations about their team name “Joe Buck Yourself.” He supposed people from New York had inside jokes that people in San Diego would not be privy to.

As he neared the field, Draco heard the _crack_ of a bat smashing into a ball, and looked up instinctively to watch for the Bludger that was sure to be coming his way. Instead, there was a round, white ball flying towards the middle of the grassy part of the field. Draco watched, enthralled, as a man ran pell-mell towards the ball and caught it just before it hit the ground. Damn, did he have a fine ass. Draco admired its pertness as he continued towards the spot where there were several large bags scattered around, with random equipment sprawled all over.

There were some funny metal benches running down the right and left sides of the field, but Draco eschewed them in favor of the stadium seating directly behind the woman wearing a lot of gear. The man from the grassy field, who was now wearing some sort of head equipment and carrying a bat, was walking towards the strange white, flat object that looked like a rectangle with a triangle stacked on top of it. He stood in a white rectangular box and raised the bat above his right shoulder. Draco couldn’t possibly see where this was going.

Then, before he could properly see exactly what happened, the person standing on top of a large dirt mound raised his leg and pulled back his arm to hurl the small white ball what looked like directly at the man with the bat. Draco sprang out his chair, sure that the man would end up in a shit ton of pain and attack the thrower with the bat. Were these muggles mad?

Instead, the ball whooshed over the rectangle-triangle and was caught by the woman wearing a lot of gear in a giant leathery hand.

“Strike!” shouted a man on the far right side of the field, near a white square that was raised off the ground.

“Are you blind, Nate?” hollered the man with the bat. He stepped out of the white rectangle, stepped over the rectangle-triangle, and waved the bat threateningly. “Sure, it bloody well hit the outside of the corner, but I’d have needed a club to hit it, it was so high!”

Draco took a minute to revel in the fact that the man with the bat had a British accent – there was one of his own out on the playing field! And he was clearly all muscle, even from here, with that very fine ass…

“Just making sure you didn’t fall asleep on the ride out here!” returned Nate. “You’re going to have to get used to playing after tiring conditions! Don’t think that the kids are going to go easy on you – yes, I’m looking at you, Zee.”

The man in the middle of the left side of the dirt field – Zee – turned to Nate, who seemed to be the team coach, and glared. Draco was appreciative; it was a good glare.

The grumpy man with the bat walked back into the white rectangle and put his bat back up on his shoulder. The man on the mound wound up again, and released the ball in what looked to Draco like the perfect spot for hitting. The man with the bat clearly thought so too: he swung, but hit nothing but air as the ball flew by him and landed in the odd leather hand with a loud _thump_.

“How about that one!” howled Nate. “Are you going to tell me that was a ball too, and that you didn’t just pull your head skyhigh and swing with a cavemanesque blow?”

The entire dirt field broke out into laughter, and the grumpy batter pointed his bat at Nate again. “Just you wait, _Coach_ , this one’s coming right to you.”

He stepped back into the rectangular box for the third time and prepared to swing. By some magical power, or through sheer force of will, Draco didn’t really know, the batter swung again and with a loud _crack_ the ball sailed off the bat and flew to the right of Nate. He was prepared, and ran at it with all his might. Even with the enormous effort expended, the ball still missed Nate’s leather hand by a sliver and continued on its path to the grassy part of the field.

The grumpy batter motored towards Nate, and Draco thought for a minute that he was running out there to enact some vicious muggle vengeance. Then he realized that the man was sprinting towards the raised white square. What was this crazy game, anyway? Draco watched as Nate, after missing the ball, ran back to the white square as well. Was he going to try and trip the batter? There was yet another man in the grassy field running after the ball as well, and all too quickly he had it in his hands and was hurtling it towards Nate. But the grumpy batter had already touched the square and was in the process of slowing down his run. He turned on his right side and walked back to the base, and Nate chucked the ball back to the man on the dirt mound. Wow, was this confusing.

Draco continued to watch, fascinated, as another man stepped up to the rectangle-triangle and held up a bat. As soon as the man on the mound let go of the ball, the grumpy former batter leapt off the square and started running as fast as he could for the one directly behind the thrower. Before he could blink, the woman catching the ball behind the rectangle-triangle released the ball, just as fast, and the thrower ducked as the ball flew over his head. Suddenly, the grumpy batter was on the ground, and Nate shouted “Safe!”

“What are you talking about, I had him by a mile!” yelled an outraged Zee, showing the ball clasped in his leather hand to Nate.

“Brah, his foot slid right under your mitt,” chimed in the man who threw the ball to the batter from the dirt mound, raising his _mitt_ towards Zee.

“Work on securing the tag,” instructed Nate, walking forwards and giving a visual demonstration. “We can’t have any sneaky runners getting a free base on a regular pitch. José,” he continued, turning to the man on the mound. “Don’t be afraid to fake ‘em out, or even to throw to the bag. The outfield has you covered.”

Zee threw the ball back to José, and yet another man with a bat came up to the rectangle-triangle.

“Last batter!” shouted Nate. There was a small scuffle between Zee and a woman at yet another _bag_. Zee won, and ran to pick up some spare head gear before stepping up to the triangle-rectangle.

José threw it over the plate, and this time, the grumpy former batter only took a few running steps off the bag before pausing. The woman behind the rectangle-square wasn’t taking any chances. Draco had to respect the way she fired the ball towards the man standing at the bag, waiting to catch it. The grumpy batter leapt back to the bag face first, reaching out a hand to touch it just a millisecond before the leather hand with the ball touched him, or rather, smacked him. The man with the leather hand wasn’t very gentle.

Another throw over the rectangle-triangle, this one directly at the spot Draco thought would make him want to swing had he been the one out there with the bat. Zee clearly thought so too, because he crushed the ball out to the left part of the grassy field.

The grumpy batter was running faster than Draco even thought he could go, motoring around the last base before heading full speed ahead for the rectangle-triangle. The person in the grassy field, though, had the ball back to the dirt field before Draco could look away from the grumpy batter. The woman near the final bag chucked the ball hard to the woman in all the gear at the rectangle-triangle, and the grumpy batter was falling – no, sliding – in his attempt to touch it before the ball in the leather hand touched him.

“OUT!” shouted Nate from behind the woman in the gear. Draco hadn’t even seen him come down from his bag. “Nice, Nels, that’s exactly the kind of tag I want to see.”

Nels gave Nate a huge grin, before slapping the grumpy batter on the helmet and then offering him a hand up. “You might have made it if you weren’t checking out Becky Lou’s ass on the way around third.”

The grumpy batter snorted. “Yeah, right. I was busy running – blazed past the bag too fast to even see Becky Lou at third!”

Becky Lou shouted, from what Draco presumed was third bag, “Same, because I was too busy checking out _your_ ass, sweetums!” Draco chuckled at the team’s banter. They seemed like quite the lively bunch.

“Bring it in!” hollered Nate, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting loud enough for the players in the grassy field to hear. He caught Draco’s eye, signaling him that it was time to come down, and Draco got the feeling Nate had known he was there all along.

As Draco approached the dirt field for the first time, Becky Lou saw fit to run up and actually slap the grumpy man on his ass. He jerked up into a ramrod straight posture and covered his butt – which was really quite delectable, decided Draco – with his hands.

“All right, you maniacs,” said Nate. “It’s time to meet some of the San Diego staff, as we’ll be working closely –”

Becky Lou let out a loud guffaw, and Nate rounded on her. “Hey! I know you all are tired, after four days of driving, but come on now.” She gave Nate a mock injured look, and he sighed. “They’re a rowdy lot. But you’ll mostly be working with Harry; his manners are usually okay.” He gestured towards the grumpy man who was just pulling off his head gear. “The rest of you, go ahead and introduce yourselves.”

Draco was thrilled to be working with the grumpy man even though he experienced a touch of unease with the name Harry, as it just brought back too many memories. He specialized in grumpy though, so it wouldn’t be too much of challenge for him to be a superior grump to the man with the delectable ass. He admitted to himself that he would rather that the man be nice so Draco could get to know him and convince him to let Draco fondle those perky ass cheeks.

Everyone was still rattling off names, but the grumpy man had finally turned around and faced Draco for the first time. He was impossibly filthy, but Draco figured that was typical with all the sliding around in the dirt. Finally glancing at the man’s face for the first time, Draco almost went into shock. He lost all sense of time and place and a chill shot down his spine when he remembered the memories he had of this man. Of course it had to be Harry Bloody Potter, Draco’s rival and, at one point in time, sworn enemy. They had fought on opposite side of the war, and Draco’s had lost. He owed Potter his freedom and even his life. Draco did not like thinking about all the debts he owed Potter. His vision blurred, and he felt the slightest touch of dizziness flooding his sensations. He hoped that his reactions weren’t obvious to the rest of the team, who he’d had just the slightest bit of chance at liking before the grand reveal of Potter…

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Harry was thrilled to finally arrive in San Diego. Even though it was only early June, the weather was fantastic. He could spend all his time and California and die a happy, fulfilled man. After crossing from Arizona into California, Nate had had the most interesting (frustrating) time trying to figure out how to drive amongst Californians. Zee’d taken the piss out of him for the full 4 hours it took to finally arrive in San Diego, and Harry couldn’t help but be amused by some of the funnier witticisms that were made. It was Nate, after all, who’d forced them to make the 2,500+ mile drive in less than 3 days. And it was also Nate that would only allow bathroom breaks every two hours and a game of catch every night after dinner. This was supposedly the man who’d coached the number one team in the New York CFBA.

 _Finally_ they’d been allowed out on the playing field again, and Harry had been in heaven pushing his muscles to the limits with running. Though Quidditch usually fulfilled a need deep within him, Harry couldn’t help but feel a true sense of freedom when he was sprinting around the bases. He still couldn’t believe how fast some of his teammates could get the ball to the bases; Nels, for example, possessed a brutally wicked arm. Harry almost wondered if she would make a decent pitcher while he was diving back to second base. Mike laughed at his panicked breathing before slapping his mitt against Harry’s side anyway after catching the ball.

“Have you seen your admirer up in the stands? Been staring at you for the past fifteen minutes.”

Harry gave Mike a death glare, and snapped, “Are you going to touch me with your balls all day, or let me the hell up?”

Snickering, Mike threw the ball back to José before turning back to Harry. “He’s pretty fucking hot too, if you’re into men. Good luck, stud.”

Brushing himself off, Harry refused to give Mike the satisfaction of looking up in the stands to check out the mystery man. There was more than enough time to admire him later, especially if they were working closely with one another like Nate hinted that they would be. Right now, it was time to steal another base.

Sadly, he was tagged out at home, and Nate ended practice by bringing the team in to meet their new co-worker. Becky Lou was screwing around as usual, and Harry lost track of the conversation as he went to pull his helmet off and shake out his messy and slightly dirt covered hair.

Harry caught sight of the mystery man out of his peripheral vision and decided that it was a good, discreet moment to give him a quick once over. He noticed the long, long pale thin legs first. Merlin, he could just imagine them wrapping around his waist as he gently slid into the man’s opening…No, no, no. This was absolutely not the direction he should be taking, especially not without seeing the man’s face first. Somehow, Harry couldn’t even bring himself to care about how vain and shallow that sounded. Mike said he was hot, though, so he probably wouldn’t be disappointed.

The second thing he saw was the man’s short blue shorts. God, those were European, weren’t they? Harry hadn’t yet met an American man that would be caught dead in shorts of that style, unless they were stuck in the ‘70s or ‘80s. Damn him to hell, because that’s exactly where he was going based on the sinful way he kept imagining ripping them off the lithe pale man.

Inwardly nodding with approval, Harry gazed up the man’s well-defined torso until he finally reached the man’s face, which was slightly pointed and framed by gossamer white-blonde hair – dear God, this could not be happening to him. Draco Malfoy could simply not be standing in front of him a year after the War, in fucking _California_ , dressed in short shorts and working for a muggle non-profit organization. There was something totally _wrong_ with that picture. Maybe Mike was secretly a wizard and had glamoured the poor muggle they were _really_ supposed to be working with.

Harry accidentally met Malfoy’s smoldering silver eyes and felt a wave of nausea pass over him. This was actually happening. His only consolation was that Malfoy looked like he was about to swallow a beehive, so at least Harry wasn’t the only one suffering. Suppressing the urge to turn tail and run away from Malfoy, and the Wizarding World he was surely here to represent, Harry took a deep breath and went to face his former nemesis.

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	11. Hello from the Other Side

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They stared daggers at each other from across home plate, green eyes meeting gray. Harry was pretty decent at wandless magic and getting better at wordless, so he could hex Malfoy into a coma if he had to. At least there was no way Malfoy could be hiding his own wand, as there wasn’t enough room in those short shorts for anything that long and hard…with effort, Harry pulled his mind out of the gutter and desperately declared that he was not physically attracted to Malfoy.

Swallowing his pride, Harry stretched out his hand to Malfoy and murmured, “How’s it going? My name’s Harry…” he trailed off, unsure what exactly to say to his former rival.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. He waved his hand through the air, nonverbally and wandlessly. The members of Joe Buck Yourself stood around them, frozen in time, and Harry refused to be impressed with Malfoy’s cavalier use of magic that was, quite frankly, impressive. “Stuff the innocent act, Potter. I know you followed me out here. What does the Ministry want now? Are you here to _collect_ something else?” he sneered.

Harry laughed hollowly. “Oh right, I forgot. If anyone’s innocent around here I’m sure it’s you, Malfoy. And last time I checked, _I’m_ the one the Ministry is more likely to keep tabs on.”

Malfoy snorted, and Harry curled his hands into fists. “No, really, Malfoy. Did you come to ask for some autographs so you can hock them to afford a real pair of shorts?”

“If only you knew what I could afford, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “It would probably include your ancestor’s estates – whoops, silly me. Poor little Potty doesn’t _have_ any widdle ancestors…” Harry leapt at him then, sinking his fist into Malfoy’s pointy, gloating face. Malfoy grabbed Harry’s arms, blood running down his nose, and tried to knee Harry in the crotch. Harry reacted by hauling Malfoy’s lithe body into the backstop behind home plate, smashing Malfoy’s forearms into the diamond metal fence to pin him down.

They stood there panting, bodies very close together. Harry briefly looked up – Malfoy was just an inch or so taller – and met Malfoy’s silver eyes, expecting to see anger and hatred there. Instead, he saw fear, determination, and something else that wasn’t so easy to name. Harry swallowed, knowing what he had to do.

“So you really weren’t out here looking for me?” Harry demanded, not releasing Malfoy.

“No, Potter, I came out here after you so I could kiss your ass like every other sodding idiot in the Wizarding World!”

“Well now I know you’re telling the truth,” said Harry. “The day you want to be anywhere near my ass is the day you give Hagrid butterfly kisses.”

To his great surprise, Malfoy very faintly flushed. Harry wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been in such close proximity to the git. “I’m surprised they haven’t featured your ass in W _itch Weekly_ , Potter. Just think of what a fantastic _spread_ it would make,” he sniped with a hint of a smile.

Harry laughed, letting Malfoy go as he went to card his fingers through his hair. “Was that supposed to be a joke, Malfoy?”

“Perhaps, Potter. A broken clock is right twice a day, after all.”

“So you’re really working for the non-profit organization, then?” Harry asked, lifting up one foot to press against the backstop.

“I am,” said Malfoy stiffly. He offered no additional information.

“Why?”

“Must you be so nosy _all_ the time, Potter?”

“When I find the Pureblood heir to the Malfoy family in _America_ dressed in muggle clothes and drinking muggle coffee, yeah, I get a little curious.”

Malfoy sighed enormously, to let Harry know just how burdensome the question was. He wiped the blood off his nose with the back of his hand, looking down at the dirt. “Do you know anything about the Future Promise Legislation?”

“No,” replied Harry honestly. “Was it drafted by the Ministry after the War?”

Malfoy’s dark look told Harry that he’d got it in one. “I’m guessing that it wasn’t so good for you?”

Immediately regretting the innuendo, Harry watched Malfoy close his eyes in exasperation…or something else. “Potter, I’m a former Death Eater. The Future Promise Legislation basically micromanaged every _single_ aspect of my life. I couldn’t even walk out in public without something dastardly happening, or without some vigilante trying to take justice into their own hands.”

“You’ve never cared about rules before,” Harry pointed out. It went unsaid that he had been just as deviant as Malfoy. “Surely it couldn’t have been bad enough to make you leave the Wizarding World?”

Malfoy laughed now, chokingly bitter. “What rock have you been living under, Potter? They’re rounding up and arresting former Death Eaters like each one is the Dark Lord himself in disguise. It was only a matter of time before they took me in on some trumped up charge; I’m trying to be free the only way I can.”

Harry gazed at Malfoy almost sympathetically. He _hadn’t_ explicitly heard about the Future Promise Legislation, but then again Kingsley had tried to get him to endorse something, conveniently failing to provide the finer details…

Picking up on Harry’s softening features, Malfoy snapped, “So what are you doing in America, Potter? How could the Golden Boy possibly leave behind the Weasel and the –” he abruptly ended, apparently unwilling to utter his favorite former insult.

“None of your business, Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave him an ugly glare, and Harry relented. It was really only fair, since he’d shared his real reason with Harry.

“I couldn’t feel anything,” Harry explained, not meeting Malfoy’s eyes. “I had everything that I’d dreamed of having after the War ended; I had my life back. I dunno, I can’t explain it.”

But Malfoy was nodding like he understood. “So you’re here because you want to be here. We really do have to work together, then?”

“If there’s no chance of getting you to bugger off,” said Harry, half-kidding.

“No way, Potter.”

“What do you even do, Malfoy?”

Malfoy drew himself up to his full height and gave Potter a superior smirk. “I _write_ , Potter. I know how hard that must be for you to understand, as you can’t even properly hold a quill.”

Harry bristled, and then let it go. Things between he and Malfoy were never going to be easy. “You write. Okay, perfect. Nate said I was supposed to help you in fundraising, though I imagine you and your _writing_ have that all taken care of.”

“Not so fast, Potter.” Malfoy said, waggling a finger. The blood he’d been continually wiping away was dripping down his arm now.

“For Merlin’s sakes,” said Harry. He took a step closer to Malfoy and raised his hand. Malfoy, to his credit, didn’t shy away. “Episkey,” said Harry, speaking the incantation to avoid any mishaps with Malfoy’s perfect pointy face. Malfoy would never let him forget it if he made his face any worse by say, accidentally removing an ear.

Malfoy nodded in thanks, and Harry cast a quick nonverbal Cleaning Charm on him before stepping back again. “As I was saying, Potter, you’re not getting out of helping. There’s a lot that goes into fundraising. You can take your pretty little face over to the old lady’s houses and get donations for our endowment fund –”

“Did you just call me pretty?” asked Harry, dumbfounded.

Waving a hand impatiently, Malfoy shrugged him off. “Minor detail, Potter. Believe me, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

“But Nate’s given me so much to do already, with coaching, team practices and games, and not to mention teaching you how to play baseball –”

Malfoy choked. “Excuse me, what did you say?”

“Teaching you how to play baseball.”

“Potter, that’s simply not happening. I do have to learn the game for my position, but as you said, there’s simply too much already on your plate.”

“Nonsense, Malfoy,” said Harry, smirking. “I wouldn’t mind in the slightest. What’s a few sleepless nights compared to teaching someone the beautiful game of baseball? You know, it’s as American as apple pie.”

“What do you know about American?” scoffed Malfoy. “Besides, you have a team full of athletes that would be perfectly capable of teaching me the simple game –”

“You would call it simple,” snorted Harry. “Like Quidditch is oh so simple. Well, I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but with baseball you actually have to move.”

“Potter, would you not call flying around on a broomstick moving?”

“Of course. I meant that you’ll be moving your body. When’s the last time you did some running, Malfoy? Maybe that time when you saw Professor Moody coming at you from around the corner?”

Malfoy flushed. Harry would have bet money that he was remembering the time Professor Moody had turned him into a ferret and bounced him all over the courtyard.

“I’ll have you know, Potter, that I am a fine runner. In fact, I bet I could beat you in a race to that white square over there.” He pointed to first base, a challenge on his face.

“It’s called a base. And you’re on!” Harry took off for first base without a second glance back at Malfoy, feet pounding into the ground in much the same way they had when he’d been playing pickle on the bases during practice. Malfoy had zero chance at beating him, what with those surfer-boy flip flops he was currently sporting.

Still, Malfoy put up a good fight. Harry had crossed first base and took his time slowing down afterwards, almost reaching the outfield, while Malfoy lost the flops and ran daintily but surprisingly quickly down the baseline after him. He simply stood there, staring intently at the base, while Harry turned around (right towards the foul line, some habits should not ever be broken) and walked back over to him.

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“I’ll have you know, Potter, that in a real race you wouldn’t stand a chance. Plus, you had an advantage. What are those spiky things on your feet?”

Potter picked up his right foot, grabbing his ankle to reveal the underside of his shoe to Draco. “Cleats. This way you don’t slip and fall all over the field.”

Draco nodded, pressing his bare foot on first base experimentally. “And why did you run past the base like that? It’s not just because we’re racing, because I saw you do it earlier.”

Potter looked at him, amused. “Ready to start learning the ‘simple’ game of baseball now, Malfoy?”

“Actually, I should probably end the spell,” Draco said, almost reluctantly. By unspoken agreement, they both turned and started walking back toward home plate.

“It’s called running through the base,” Potter said suddenly as they were almost halfway back. “You can only do it on first. I’m sure you picked up on the fact that you’re trying to beat the ball there, right?” Draco nodded. “Yeah, well since you’re sprinting down the baseline it would obviously be a major drag to stop right on the thing, so you’re allowed to run through.”

“Makes sense,” said Draco, lifting his hand to presumably restore them to real time.

“But when you turn around to walk back to the base,” said Potter, now determined to impart baseball knowledge, “You always want to make sure you turn to the right, and not the left.”

“Why?” asked Draco. It seemed like an awful arbitrary rule to him.

“Because if you turn around to the left, then you’re theoretically in fair territory and you can be tagged out. But if you turn to the right, you’re in foul, and are safe until you get back on the bag again.”

Shaking his head, Draco waved his hand and watched the rest of the team come alive around him and Potter again. Maybe there would be more to this baseball thing than he originally thought.

“Harry!” shouted Nate happily. “Meet Draco Malfoy. You wanted some extra practice with your teaching, so you’re going to be helping him learn the game.”

“Great,” said Potter, actually managing to sound semi-excited, instead of resigned and resentful like Draco expected him to. But then again, Potter did seem to really like this game. And he liked divulging knowledge, apparently, if the first base explanation was anything to go by.

“You’ll all get your coaching assignments tomorrow,” said Nate. “I’ve paired us all up – Zee’s with Becky Lou, Mike with José, Nels with Chris, and finally Cale with me.” After that last pairing, his face was more than a little pink. “Alright, everyone back on the bus!”

People were slapping each other on the butts and backs, but what was even more horrifying was that they were including Draco in this treatment.

“Lighten up, sweetheart,” laughed Becky Lou after the one called Mike actually ruffled his hair. “You’ll fit right in as one of us sooner or later.”

Under his breath, Draco whispered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Amidst the chaos, Potter was having a bit of a heart attack. “Wait, Nate! You didn’t say who I was partnered with.”

Nate did a double take. “Shit, that’s right, Harry. We have an odd number on the team –” he looked downcast for a second, and then straightened back up again with a gleeful look on his face. “I’ve got it! You can work with Draco.” Before either of them could move or even breathe, Nate caught Draco’s eye. “You wouldn’t mind a bit of recreational coaching, would you? I’m sure Danny would fairly compensate you for it.”

“Not at all,” Draco managed, afraid to look back at Potter. “But I’m afraid that I still don’t know any of the rules.”

“No matter,” shrugged Nate. “Not if I know Harry. He’ll have you caught up in a week, trust me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” blurted out Potter.

“Nothing bad,” said Nate, shifting his clipboard under his arm and getting ready to head back over to the bus with the rest of the team. “Just that you put yourself 100% into what you do.” He walked away, leaving Draco and Harry to keep twin looks of horror off of their faces.

They simply stood in silence for a moment, each lost in thought. Finally, Draco said, “Potter, I hope your schedule is clear for today.”

“Malfoy, I’m exhausted. We’ve been driving for four days straight and Nate wouldn’t even let us take any real breaks.”

“Do you really think that I can teach a bunch of kids how to play baseball if I don’t even know anything about the bloody sport?”

“Good point,” said Potter, nodding.

“I knew you never used your brain at all over the last seven years,” muttered Draco, kicking the chalky dirt over home plate.

“Harry!” shouted Cale from way over by the bus. “Come on, we’re going to get brunch.” A very loud honking noise followed the announcement.

“Look, Malfoy. We’re going to get food and then I have to find somewhere to live. If I can get all that done, then I’ll meet up with you this afternoon, alright?”

“Fair enough,” Draco conceded. Potter turned and started walking away, and Draco fought not to admire Potter’s ass, streaked as it was with reddish-brown dirt. “Wait – Potter,” Draco called out. “Will you bring me some of that stuff you play in?”

“You mean some gear?” said Potter, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I surely don’t expect to see you mopping up the field in those ridiculous clothes.”

“I’ll have you know that I like these clothes,” said Draco, feeling only a little foolish. Part of him still longed for proper wizarding robes and attire.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Potter, turning away again. “I don’t suppose you have a cell phone?”

“Of course I do,” said Draco, annoyed. “I’ve been here for a lot longer than you, I suspect.”

They briefly exchanged numbers as the horn loudly (and rather rudely, thought Draco) honked again. “Gotta go,” Potter said, dashing off. “I’ll text you.”

Draco was left alone on the baseball field, watching the wind stir up the loose dust and blow it around. He was oddly curious about what it would feel like to actually play a competitive game on a field so different than the Qudditch Pitch, which would, as Potter had so kindly pointed out, involve running.

Frowning slightly, Draco resolved to send a quick email to Danny to let him know that Draco had gotten roped into coaching and to ask for appropriate compensation. He also decided that he knew enough about the organization to start on the introduction piece of the grant proposal. Vowing to have a semi-productive afternoon before Potter eagerly filled his mind with a thousand baseball rules and plays, Draco Apparated away after glancing around to confirm that there were no muggles in plain sight.

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	12. By the Flash of a Neon Light

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Housing in San Diego was apparently nonexistent. Harry’s mouth dropped open in disbelief when he, Chris, and Cale started touring around the city looking for “For Rent” signs.

“There’s just nothing available whatsoever,” groaned Chris as they drove down yet another side street.

“It would be so much bloody better to live over here too,” said Cale thoughtfully. “We play on the fields that are fifteen minutes away, and are going to be coaching on the ones ten minutes away in the opposite direction.”

Harry sighed. “And I hate commuting.” He did, too. The bus was slow and inefficient, what with all the different stops it made, and driving frustrated him to no end. Stop lights and traffic could put him in a foul mood on any given day.

“Relax,” said Cale soothingly. “We’ll find a place. I mean, there’s supposed to be more and more people leaving California every day, right?”

“We need them to leave _now_ ,” spat Harry. “Can you imagine having to get up any earlier for practice than we already do?”

“Speaking of leaving,” said Chris, checking his watch. “Weren’t you supposed to be meeting up with our new pal Draco?”

‘Pal’ and ‘Draco’ were two words Harry did not ever want to hear put together in a sentence again. Though they’d come to an unsteady truce, there was no getting over seven solid years of hatred in one day.

“Shit,” Harry flung, fishing out his cell and searching his contacts for Malfoy’s number. The posh bastard answered on the third ring, too. Harry had been half hoping he wouldn’t answer at all.

“Hello?” answered Malfoy’s perfectly enunciated voice.

“Oi, Malfoy. I’m still not done yet. We’ve been driving around for hours and still haven’t come across anything for rent–”

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong, Potter,” Malfoy said. Harry could practically hear him rolling his eyes on the other end of the phone. “People in San Diego don’t usually put up ‘For Rent’ signs because they don’t want the homeless population squatting on their property.”

“‘Squatting?’” Harry inquired doubtfully. 

“Yeah, haven’t you ever heard of squatters? Please tell me you at least did a little bit of research about the place you were moving to before just showing up,” snorted Malfoy.

“Look, I’m tired, hungry, and not in the mood to be putting up with a stupid prat,” snapped Harry. “Either give me some advice I can actually use or bugger off.”

“You have to go online,” explained Malfoy in what sounded like a patient voice. Harry wasn’t fooled, though. “Browsing Zillow, Trulia, or even Craigslist should turn something up.”

“I don’t have access to the internet. If I have to go back to the bus to start searching, then we’re definitely not going to be able to practice tonight.”

“How about a compromise, then?” Malfoy’s posh voice sounded a lot better over the phone than it did in person, and Harry could almost find himself feeling just a little bit better about the situation. Malfoy was strangely reassuring when he wasn’t being a doucher (a new vocab word Harry learned  after Cale cut off a college-aged girl in traffic).

“I’m all ears, Malfoy,” he relented wearily.

“You and whoever you’re with come back to mine, and they can search rentals while you teach me how to play some bloody baseball.”

“You’re on,” said Harry. Goody – now he could stick his mates with this awful task. Technology was never his strong suit anyhow. “What’s your address?”

Five minutes later, they were en route to Draco Malfoy’s place. Hell, he never thought he’d be distressed enough to take Malfoy up on his hospitality, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Fortunately, it wasn’t far – Harry didn’t think he could spend too much more time waiting at traffic lights – and the views of California were stunning. The mountains were covered in little shrubs, trees, and cacti and the roadsides sported succulents and rock gardens, further accentuating the palm trees on every corner and yard. They passed an American school along the way, San Diego State University, and vaguely Harry wondered what it would be like to go there. He’d always loved being away at Hogwarts and felt strangely robbed of the summer he’d wasted in Auror training.

Harry’s pondering came to an end when Cale started swearing at the steering wheel. “Blimey, could it be any harder to find? Can either of you make out the address? I can’t see the numbers.”

“Here, it’s this one!” proclaimed Chris after a good thirty seconds of crawling down the street.

“Finally,” breathed Cale with relief. “Oh Gods – I have to park on the street?” Parallel parking was not his strongest suit.

“Want me to do it?” suggested Harry. Cale nodded yes immediately, and the two jumped out of the car to switch seats. Traffic lights and congested roads practically gave him heart attacks, but Harry secretly loved parallel parking. Arthur Weasley had been so impressed that time when Harry gave him a quick overview of the technique and how to position the mirrors.

Unpleasant task over, the three tromped up the walk and climbed the stairs to where Malfoy lived. The apartment building was tan and horrifically plain, and Harry could see multiple pairs of sneakers thrown over the telephone wires. He didn’t see how Malfoy could possibly put up with living here; in fact, Harry didn’t know if he could stomach it himself. There were rowdy frat boys just down the hall, and Harry could make out every word as they chanted some kind of brotherhood pledge.

The door was immediately yanked open by some grubby looking guy in a frat tank top and boxers. “I swear, if you’re here to try and sell me another magazine subscription, so help me– ”

“Kindly unhand my guests, Steve,” came Draco’s unforgettable drawl from across the room.

“Sorry, brahs,” shrugged Steve, stepping back and gesturing with his hand for them to come inside. It was neat and clean, if not a little mismatched. Harry supposed the décor had been selected by Steve. “They’ve been relentlessly targeting us all week.”

“Totally understand,” Chris nodded. “At UB in New York, we’d always get these weird old ladies trying to sell us candles.”

Malfoy tapped his foot. “Hate to break up this cozy get-together, but we’re burning daylight. Potter and I need to get going.”

“Cool your jets, Malfoy. I’ll have you begging to come home within an hour, anyway,” Harry snorted.

“My laptop’s over here,” Malfoy said to Chris and Cale, ushering them inside his bedroom. Now _this_ was much more familiar to Harry. Malfoy decorated in various shades of green and silver to represent a small piece of home, he supposed. There were also aristocratic accents such as small porcelain figurines and glassy lamps scattered all over the bedroom in addition to a very comfortable looking silver futon and matching armchair. Malfoy’s bed was off to the side, underneath the window, and Harry tried to distract himself with the view to avoid thinking about rolling around with his former arch-enemy on his very own bed.

Chris and Cale sat down and powered up the computer while Malfoy rattled off instructions. “Make sure not to load too many pages at once, otherwise the processer will throw a tantrum. If Steve comes in to bother you, just call him ‘Mr. C’s-Get-Degrees’ and he’ll go away. He might throw a tantrum too, actually. And don’t be dismayed by the high rent in San Diego. If the price is too low, then you’re in the wrong neighborhood.”

“We are coming here from New York,” pointed out Chris, and Malfoy just gave him a look.

“Come on, Malfoy, or you’re going to take a ball to the head,” exaggerated Harry impatiently. Just then, Cale caught his eye and raised an eyebrow suggestively, and it’s all he can do not to burst into hysterics. That would be something else, his balls near Malfoy’s head…

For his part, Malfoy doesn’t bat an eye and strutted gracefully out of the room. “Oi, wait!” shouted Harry after him. “You might want to change before we go. Here, I brought you some gear.” He pulled out baseball pants, a long pair of blue baseball socks, a jersey, and a very dirty, worn pair of cleats.

“Potter, you expect me to wear _those_!” gasped Malfoy in horror.

“Um, yeah. This isn’t fashion 101, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

Snatching the clothes from under his nose, Malfoy made for the bathroom as Harry shook his head wearily. Really, sometimes he thinks Malfoy just finds it amusing to give him a hard time. In fact, the blonde wouldn’t be nearly so bad if he’d just lighten up a little and take out whatever stick that’d crawled up his arse. Speaking of Malfoy’s arse, Harry found himself again wishing that he could examine it much more thoroughly in peace. It’s pert, round, and utterly delectable – and Merlin’s saggy balls if it doesn’t look a hundred times sexier when he’s wearing baseball pants…

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Draco strode out of the bathroom and headed back into his bedroom only to find Potter staring at him like he just Transfigured into a moose. “Avert your eyes, Potter. I know I’m attractive and all, but you simply must control yourself.” To his complete and utter surprise, Potter flushed just the slightest bit. Well, that was interesting. Maybe Potter actually _was_ attracted to him.

“As if, Malfoy,” Potter spat back. “I was just wondering how you could have managed to put on your jersey backwards when you’re always bragging about how smart you are.”

Bugger. Draco had tried on the ruddy thing both ways after he wasn’t able to remember the way the team wore theirs earlier.

“Looks like you’ll need to wear it again tomorrow, too,” snickered Potter. “You need the practice putting it on correctly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he spat, unable to come up with a better comeback. Sliding the jersey off in one slick motion, Draco missed the way Potter’s eyes traveled appreciatively over his torso. He slipped it back on, already worming his feet into Potter’s ugly shoes and making for the door. “Let’s go already.”

Cale and Chris, in the process of stalking Zillow, briefly waved goodbye and Potter practically hurled a baseball glove into his chest as they finally walked out into the falling sunlight.

“Shit, I forgot the keys,” swore Potter.

“No need to drive,” said Draco nonchalantly. “There’s a practice field right on campus.” He led the way down the road, away from the large stadium overlooked by his bedroom window, and up a set of stairs to the field. The dirt infield was regular sized, but the grassy outfield stretched out a long way, bordering the Music building and serving as a cut-through to the students coming from the main campus.

Potter started perking up immediately. “This is super convenient,” he enthused, tossing down a bag of equipment and drawing out several dirty baseballs. “Literally right in your own backyard.”

“I don’t live here for the area, Potter,” replied Draco dryly. He loved being so close to campus but lived in complete and utter dismay of the unsavory neighborhood. College Area was interesting, to say the least.

“Grab your mitt, Malfoy,” Potter snapped, coming down a notch. “Your first lesson is how to throw the bloody ball.” He led the way out onto the field with Draco following behind and anxiously trying to stuff the miserable thing onto his hand. Potter looked back after a minute and for some reason, took pity. “Here, like this,” he said, showing Draco how to stick his index finger through a special hole in the glove. “This should always be outside the mitt so you have more control when you’re catching.”

Silently grateful, Draco watched as Potter took up a spot by the dugout. “I’m going to stand here just in case you miss me, Malfoy,” he said, suddenly bright again. Draco took the hint and walked out in the middle of the field, close to where José had pitched the ball from earlier that day.

“What now, Potter?” he called from across the field.

“Now you catch.” Potter threw the ball directly at his chest, and Draco almost had a heart attack trying to get it to land in the glove. Fortunately, it bounced off of the leather contraption and left his body unharmed.

“Malfoy,” Potter said exasperatedly, already running over to where Draco stood. “Pretend it’s an extension of your hand. When it’s above your stomach, turn the mitt like this–” he demonstrated, rotating his glove around “–if it’s below your belt, like this–” he made another movement, but strangely enough it seemed to make sense to Draco “–and if it’s above your head, do this.” Potter snatched Draco’s hand and moved him through the motions, and he was surprised when Potter’s touch felt wonderful, at least when he wasn’t focused on punching Draco’s lights out. “Let’s try again.”

He ran back over to the fence and tossed Draco the ball. It was low, so he opened the mitt and cupped it like Potter had shown him, delighted when the ball landed right in it. Unfortunately, it popped out a second later.

“Much better!” shouted Potter. “But you’ve always got to catch with two hands. Either use your free hand to hold the glove closed after you catch it, or catch the ball and then cover it.”

Wobblingly, Draco picked up the ball and really felt it for the first time, staring at the red lacings. He awkwardly pulled his arm back and lobbed the ball towards Potter, where it struck the fence two feet to his right.

“Here, Malfoy,” instructed Potter, running over yet again and putting the ball back into Draco’s hand. “This is called the K stance.” He positioned Draco’s body accordingly but rather uncomfortably. Draco made a face, to which Potter replied, “It gets better the more you do it. You’ll use this for your infield throws, and if you extend your arm back just a bit–” he took Draco’s arm and stretched it fully back “–you can do outfield throws. Throw it at that spot on the fence.” Draco moved his back into infield stance and threw. His arm rotated over his shoulder naturally, and he had a lot more control than when he’d simply lobbed it. “That’s great,” said Potter enthusiastically.

They played catch for the next forty minutes, Potter throwing balls of varying heights and speeds to Draco to have him practice the different glove positions. At one point, they moved into outfield distance, and he and Potter worked on accuracy and throw location. Night finally fell and it was time to call it quits. As Potter predicted, Draco did almost get hit in the head with the ball because he could no longer see. Even so, he felt accomplished after they were done practicing, like he’d mastered something no one would be able to take from him.

“Thanks, Potter,” Draco mustered up as they walked back.

“No problem, Malfoy. You learn really fast,” Potter remarked. “Er, are you quite ready to head back then?”

“Why?” asked Draco suspiciously. “I don’t suppose you want to go out for ice cream?”

Potter laughed. “Actually, quite the contrary. I’ve got to stay in shape and you’ve got to _get_ in shape, so we should probably go for a jog or something.”

“Are you making insinuations about my weight?”

“Not at all!” burst out Potter, looking embarrassed. “Even though baseball is less of a running sport than basketball or football, you’ve still got to be in really good shape. We might as well train together – Cale and Chris both hate running. Their idea of a good workout is trying to drink each other under the table.”

“Doesn’t sound terrible to me either,” said Draco casually. “But no, I guess I wouldn’t mind taking a run with you, Potter. We’re going to be spending enough time together this summer anyway.”

“Great,” said Potter, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. “Let’s just drop this stuff off and get some water before we go.”

They checked in on Cale and Chris, who were still hard at work looking at pictures of houses and the crime rates of San Diego neighborhoods, and changed into running shoes before leaving again.

Draco led the way across campus, taking Potter past all his favorite spots. They slipped into a rhythm, each challenging the other but not to the point of exhaustion. He’d always been well-matched with Potter, Draco remembered.

“So,” said Potter, puffing a little, “You go to school here?”

“I do,” affirmed Draco, wiping sweat off of his forehead. “It’s wonderful. Imagine Hogwarts, but with older students and a bunch of people who don’t know your name.”

“That does sound amazing,” said Potter. “It was actually refreshing to be around you when we were back in London because you were the only one who didn’t make a great big deal about who I was.”

“I’ll always be able to help you out with that, Potter,” Draco joked. “No, but really, I get to take the classes I want with the professors I want, and there’s a ton more clubs and extracurriculars than there were back at Hogwarts.”

“Let me guess, you’re on the chess team,” snorted Potter.

Draco gave him a horrified look. “Gods, no. I’m in the Debate Club, where I can destroy idiots with my sarcastic, godly wit and people actually _clap_ for me.”

“You’re unbelievable,” laughed Potter. “But I can totally see it. I’m glad you’re happy, anyway, Malfoy,” he said more seriously. “You deserve it after everything.”

“You do too,” said Draco generously. “So you live in New York now?”

“Well, I don’t really live anywhere,” said Potter thoughtfully. “I’ve stayed there as long as I have because of baseball. I really like the team. Almost feels like being at home again.”

“They seem like quite a close-knit bunch,” noted Draco.

“It’s wonderful,” Potter said, taking his turn to be enthusiastic. “I never thought that a sport other than Quidditch could be this fun.”   

“I can kind of see it,” agreed Draco. “It seems to get better the more I learn about it.”

“Definitely,” said Potter.

“Want to see my favorite spot on campus?” asked Draco, taking a chance.

“Sure.”

He led Potter down a steep, paved hill, and next to a small cottage about halfway down was a pond. Draco immediately made for the rocks and tried to see beneath the water. “Bugger, I don’t see the turtles today.”

“Next time,” Potter promised. “Wow, these koi fish are gorgeous. I can see why you love this place.”

They sat watching the koi swim around for a little while, and then Draco walked over to the grassy part of the hill and lay down. “Can you smell the trees, Potter?”

“I can,” Potter observed, plopping down next to Draco. “What are they?”

“I actually don’t know,” he admitted. “They’re in bloom now – see the pinkish flowers? They’re one of my favorite things, too.”

“How many favorites on this campus do you have, Malfoy?”

“Lots,” said Draco, his eyes beginning to close. Potter doesn’t ask any more questions, and they simply lie there in silence enjoying the sounds of the night. Sounds of frogs chirping from down near the pond travel on the cool breeze, and Draco began to shiver. Wandlessly, Potter casts a Heating Charm, and instantly he’s comforted.

Out of the blue, Potter asked, “Do you think we’re actually starting to become friends?”

Draco opened his eyes. “Perhaps, Potter. Imagine how much different Hogwarts would have been if we’d actually liked each other sooner.”

“Oh, so you like me now?” teased Potter.

“I might be persuaded to like you,” Draco corrected.

“Whatever you say, Malfoy,” returned Potter, touching his head softly to Draco’s in order to stare up at the stars. Draco followed his lead and as the two lay there together, a shooting star suddenly streaked across the sky.

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	13. He Will Be Loved

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The rest of the week flew by. In the mornings, Nate demanded the entire team’s presence for at least a three hour practice, and Harry often insisted that Malfoy attend and participate in order to pack as much baseball into the day as possible. Harry worked on moving into the place Cale and Chris had managed to secure during the afternoons, secretly levitating boxes when his teammates weren’t looking. He needed a little rest, after all, because in the evening his entire focus was on teaching Malfoy new baseball skills, concentrating on different topics each night in order to give him a well-rounded overview.

The first night after Malfoy learned to catch and throw was spent teaching him to field grounders and catch fly balls. Like Harry, he quickly adapted to tracking the ball on the ground instead of in the air. After the ball was hit, his first step was naturally back, which pleased Harry. Taking the first step back instead of forward had been one of the hardest habits for him to break when he’d started playing. Though he noticed Malfoy had a lot of potential as they shagged balls for over an hour straight, Harry suspected that he’d always be a little better as an outfielder.

But on that same night when they fielded grounders, Malfoy seemed much more at home, taking particularly well to middle infield. Harry recruited Cale and Chris to help out as Malfoy practiced taking the throws from the outfield, moving seamlessly between taking the throw from the cutoff as short stop and acting as cutoff as second baseman when Harry asked him to switch. Malfoy caught almost all of the balls, exerting himself to make the hard catches, and possessed a fire in his throws Harry only wished he could emulate. In fact, he thought Malfoy would make an excellent pitcher. At the first opportunity, he was planning to mention it to Nate and ask for his opinion.

Every day, they played catch and practiced the different types of throwing and fielding. Harry wanted Malfoy to get as much exposure to the most basic baseball skills as possible, and so he even tried to incorporate extra drills into the regular team practices. Other than a few nasty looks and muttered comments from Zee, the team had been generally accepting of the back to basics review. Nate especially had been thrilled: he always was saying how good mechanics were the key to successful baseball.

Malfoy helped out by watching videos about how to play each position, but Harry still devoted a night to positioning where he lectured on the different nuances of each one. He was most familiar with the outfield, specifically center field, but could do the rest justice, though a little rusty with catcher and pitcher. It was a good thing Malfoy had been neck and neck with Hermione at the top of their class in Hogwarts, because there was a ton of information being thrown about and it was definitely in his best interest to remember everything. That had always caused Harry difficulty; after the test was over, he promptly forgot all of the facts and dates he’d learned, but Malfoy seemed to take education in stride, even enjoying it. During the brief downtimes at team practice, he’d ask Harry to quiz him on what each position would do if so-and-so runner(s) were on base, pushing for prompt questions to which he’d give rapid-fire answers.

Truth be told, Harry was actually starting to enjoy Malfoy’s company. When he wasn’t being snarky, his witticisms and dry sense of humor could be rather entertaining. At times, Malfoy even seemed relaxed when they were spending time together on the baseball field and Harry could tell he was being more open about his thoughts and feelings instead of hiding everything behind a sneering mask like he did back at Hogwarts. He supposed the Muggle world must have had some part to play in Malfoy’s transformation. Never did he pump Harry for information about when he was going to join the Aurors, ask prying questions about Ginny (though Harry imagined Malfoy would call her “she-Weasel” or something of the sort should the topic ever come up), or remind him to keep in touch with Hagrid and the rest of the Weasleys. Oddly enough, Malfoy accepted Harry for who he was here in this strange Muggle world, and partly out of gratitude and partly out of respect, Harry left Malfoy’s situation alone. He refrained from prying into Malfoy’s struggles with Ministry legislations and completely avoided mentioning either one of Malfoy’s parents. Pretending that their past never happened seemed to work best for them both.

Their last night of training was Friday, as the teams were due for their first practices Saturday afternoon. As per their normal schedule, Harry attended Joe Buck Yourself’s insanely early morning practice, a grumpy Malfoy and his usual mug of coffee in tow.

When they finally sat down on the bleachers, bleary even in the cool air, Harry could already feel that it was going to be an unpleasant next few hours. “Team!” Nate bellowed, startling Zee out of his early morning stupor. “This is it! Our second to last practice before you become coaches means I need you at the top of your game _now_.” Nels and José inconspicuously shared a look of horror, drawing Nate’s attention. “Y’all are on the shit list,” he informed them pleasantly. “I know that once you have teams of your own, that’s where the bulk of your attention will be going.”

“What if we’re not actually coaching?” broke in Zee.

The rest of the team winced as Nate drew breath, presumably to start hollering.

“Now now,” interrupted Betty Lou, laying a hand on Zee’s shoulder. “We talked about this, hon. You’ll be coaching some of the softball girls with me, remember?”

Zee groused, “Oh, that’s right. You got me drunk–” the rest of the team, with the exception of Nate, broke in with catcalls and jests “–in an attempt to convince me that softball’s a softer sport than baseball, which makes it easier to teach.”

Smiling in a way that almost reminded Harry of Umbridge, Betty Lou smiled. “You bet I did, sweetums. How else was I going to keep you out of that wretched office?”

“We all were certain you’d be miserable there, homie,” added José. “Besides, you’d be depriving a bunch of teen girls of the chance to drool over you.”

Another look of horror passed over Zee’s face. “Teen girls?” he stammered.

Nels threw Harry a devious look before breaking out into a chorus of “Ooooh, that Zee is hot! Girl, wouldn’t you just fuck him silly?”

Trying not to let his mirth show through, Harry played along. “You know I would,” he tossed back at Nels, miming an hourglass figure excitedly with his hands. “I mean, look at dat ass,” he breathed, directly borrowing a phrase he’d heard only yesterday on an American sitcom.

Everyone, even Nate, roared with laughter at their little skit even as Zee’s face flushed an ugly color of puce. Reveling in the amusement he’d help cause, Harry glanced around to see that Malfoy was the only one (other than the disgruntled Zee) not smiling. In fact, he was staring at Harry almost as though he’d never seen him before. He didn’t look upset, otherwise Harry would have accused him of being a homophobe; instead, Malfoy wore an almost hopeful expression, one that quickly turned into a look of hunger. The emotion Harry could feel coming off of Malfoy was so strong he had to look away.

“Calm down, you loons,” Nate instructed, struggling to get his breathing back under control. “And you know, Harry, I wouldn’t be talking so much shit if I were you. After all, you and Draco are coaching softball too.”

Malfoy audibly groaned, causing Harry to crane his neck in order to get a better look at his charge. He ran his hands backward through his soft blonde hair, mussing it, and Harry had the strange urge to smooth his locks back into place.

He wasn’t the only one who had overheard Malfoy’s lack of enthusiasm. “Sugar,” said Betty Lou soothingly, placing a tentative hand on Malfoy’s back, “Softball ain’t that much different from baseball. I’ll tell you that all day long, love. You’re going to pick up the differences between the two sports right quick, you hear?”

Nodding, Malfoy allowed himself to be comforted by the Southern woman.

“That’s right,” Nate said encouragingly. “Actually, only Nels and Betty Lou have any experience with softball. All of us men are in the same boat together.”

Zee sneered at him disdainfully. “And yet not all of us are actually coaching softball.”

At times like these, Zee vividly reminded Harry of Zacharias Smith. He repressed the urge to thump Zee in much the same way as he and Ron had often repressed the urge to thump Smith.

Nate chose to ignore the situation, and Harry had to give him credit, because there was a vein bulging in Nate’s neck that suggested he might quite like to thump Zee too. “I’ll be giving out rosters to y’all later once we’re done with practice. And I’m just letting you know in advance that we’re going to be spending at least an extra half hour on mechanics,” he said bluntly, giving Zee a side-glare out the corner of his eye.

Any comments Zee had about the situation were kept to himself.

Harry was thankful that they could get out on the field, because he wanted Draco’s last team practice before coaching to be as productive as possible. He was doing a good job, but wasn’t quite all the way there yet. Even a Malfoy couldn’t be expected to play a new sport perfectly in a week’s time, after all.

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The shortstop’s behavior was getting really old, in Draco’s opinion. He gave Zee his trademark superior Malfoy glare, wishing Pansy was around to help him take the piss out of that angsty twit. God forbid he ask the Golden Boy to stoop so low as to make fun of someone, though Draco knew from his days at Hogwarts that Potter could come up with his fair share of retorts. He also had a wicked sense of humor, judging by the way he’d helped Betty Lou take Zee down a couple notches for complaining about coaching softball.

As he properly reflected on the episode, Draco wondered for about the fifteenth time in as a many minutes if Potter was actually attracted to Zee or if he was just fucking around. It simply wasn’t rational for Potter to like men, though he had left the she-Weasel behind seemingly without a care in the world. Vaguely, Draco wondered if Jake would be jealous of Potter’s devastating good looks and competitive nature. It might not be the best idea to let the two meet.

Before he could ponder the subject any further, Nate shouted, “Take the field!” and everyone scatted, leaving Draco alone on the bench. They hadn’t been doing position play so much this week; Nate had instead chose to focus on different sorts of drills. Maybe he could get a little kip in, then, if everyone else was going to be out on the field…

“Draco,” Nate said, startling the other man as he tapped his clipboard impatiently. “What position do you feel most comfortable in so far?”

“Middle infield,” he responded without hesitation, relishing the thought of fielding grounders or taking throws from the outfield.

Nate chuckled. “I can definitely see it,” he mused, running his thumb over his chin thoughtfully. “Why don’t you head out to second for now and switch off with Mike for a bit?”

Draco nodded, lacing up Potter’s disgusting cleats a little tighter before gracefully jogging out on the field and reaching out to return Mike’s proffered high five.

“Placed you at second, did he?” Mike intoned, smiling gleefully.

Shrugging, Draco responded, “He asked me where I was most comfortable; I told him middle infield.”

This caused Mike to excitedly rub his hands together and give Draco a mischievous but conspiring look. “Really? Then that means you’re going to take a turn at short too – oh, Zee’s not going to like at all. Five dollars he flips a shit?”

Draco met Mike’s eyes, wrinkling his nose and snorting dubiously. “As if. Of course he’s going to flip a shit, especially after Potter got his goat earlier.”

“That was fantastic,” Mike agreed, looking off into the distance fondly.

The _cling_ of bat hitting ball makes them both jump.

“Wake up out there!” Nate shouts, waving the bat around impatiently. “Second base, get into position and stop gabbing like schoolchildren!

Exchanging an exasperated look, Draco and Mike wordlessly decide that Mike’s going first, and Draco takes a few steps away as to not crowd him at the position. The ball had been hit to third base, so Mike doesn’t really have any action until the ball’s hit into far right center field and he has to go out for the cut off throw. Draco watches appreciatively as Harry retrieves the ball and hurtles it to Mike, his arm muscles rippling gloriously.

As Mike hustled back, he gestured for Draco to take second. A bit apprehensively, Draco gets into position, trying to look ready for the next play. Nate sends the next fly ball careening out deep into left field, so Zee takes off into the grass to cut off the throw while Draco hops onto the base and gets ready for the throw. Zee really isn’t that far away from him, so Draco prepares for a swift throw designed to beat the ghost runner to the base. Instead, Zee launches the ball directly at Draco’s head as if he’s aiming to knock it clear off. Unprepared for such a powerful throw, Draco ducks instead of trying to catch the ball. Fifteen feet behind him, the ball lands in Mike’s glove with a satisfying _thwap._

There’s an explosion of activity of the field and Draco honestly can’t tell who reacted first. He’s most aware of Potter’s feet hitting the dirt as he races out of center field and up to Zee, getting right in his face.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Potter bellowed. He shoved Zee’s shoulders, pushing him back at least a foot.

Draco can’t remember when he last saw Potter this mad. It wasn’t when he posed as a Dementor during a Quidditch match, when he took bets on how long Potter would last during the Triwizard Tournament, or even when he tried to cast an Unforgivable at Potter in their eventful sixth year. In fact, Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen Potter this angry. Sure, it was strange, but Draco was almost relieved the Saviour was on his side for a change.

José attempted to intervene, inserting himself between Potter and Zee. “Cut him some fucking slack, man,” he said rationally. “He just started playing like last week for God’s sake.”

“If he can’t walk the walk, then he needs to get the hell off the field,” Zee retorted, standing up straighter and balling his hands into fists. “Baby writer boy should go back to what he does best.”

Potter grabbed Zee by the shirtsleeves and wrenched him closer so they were nose to nose. Mike clasped his hand firmly on Draco’s arm to provide moral support, ball still firmly clasped in his mitt. They all witnessed Potter lean closer to Zee and threateningly whisper, “If you pull any more bloody stunts like that, you’re going to see what _I_ do best.”

Draco winced. He’d been on the receiving end of Potter’s beatings a couple of times and could definitely attest to his skill in that regard.

“Break it up!” Nate shouted furiously, unclenching Potter’s fingers from Zee. Potter made another desperate swoop for Zee, but Nate blocked his path and shouted for him to back off.

Potter kicked the dirt in frustration, and Draco could see that he was ready to take Nate on as well. He wanted to stop Potter, but was somehow unable to uproot himself from the dirt.  Fortunately, Nels was already handling it, making motions to lead Potter off of the field. He actually went to backhand her, but she effortlessly blocked his blow, frogmarching him away from the rest of the team.

Now that Potter was no longer a distraction, Nate turned his attention back to Zee, who looked defensive yet still defiant in spite of all the attention.

“We never,” Nate hissed, “Play sports with the intention of hurting a teammate.” For the first time, Draco could see rage bursting through the seams of his calm persona as his New York accent came out in full force.

“Fine by me, except that he’s not our teammate,” Zee snarled. “He’s some corporate asshole who’s never held a baseball before in his life. He doesn’t belong out here.”

Nate looked up towards the sky, as if praying for some sentient being to suddenly eliminate the problem that was Zee’s attitude. A change came over his face as the easy-going, all-around good guy disappeared so that Nate was unrecognizable, his face twisting in anger as he seemed to grow inches taller and infinitely scarier.

“Here’s the thing,” he spat, thrusting his pointer finger into Zee’s chest. “I don’t give a flying fuck about what you think, so you better not even _take it there_ , son.”

Chris and Cale had been lurking on the outskirts of the conflict with Betty Lou, but Draco heard Cale give a low, appreciative whistle. As he looked over, he could see Potter furiously stomping around the parking lot with Nels in tow.

Cowed, Zee turned to leave the field, but Nate blocked his path. “If you want to be on this team,” he thundered, “You need to have _respect_ for whoever’s on the field with you.” There was a pause, and Draco thought he was done, but then there was a loud bark of “That’s nonnegotiable!” and Draco felt rather than saw Zee flinch.

Nate sighed, reverting back to his old self and running his fingers back through his curly hair. “Two hours. We’re taking a two hour break, and then everyone is going to be back here and ready to play some goddamn baseball.” He left Zee and the other players standing there, gawking, as he walked off of the field. Draco caught the tail end of what sounded like “I swear to fucking Christ this team is going to be the death of me.”

“Let’s get some food, yeah?” Mike asked to break the awful silence that followed.

There was no way Draco could stomach food after that incident. It only reminded him of the hatred he’d endured in the Wizarding World and all of the reasons why he left. “You go on,” Draco mumbled. “I need to check on a wild Potter.” He shrugged off his teammates’ calls of encouragement as he strode off the field too, heading for Potter.

Cale jogged after him even though Draco didn’t want to be bothered. “Mate,” he said reasonably, “Zee’s a wanker. Don’t even think about that jackass.”

Draco met Cale’s eyes and saw nothing but sincerity there. He swallowed the lump in his throat, afraid to out his emotions by speaking.

“We take care of our own,” Cale insisted. “Like it or not, love, you’re one of us now.”

So as to not offend Cale, Draco offered up a weak smile and nodded politely to him before trudging away.

Potter sat on breeze blocks abandoned at the far side of the parking area while Nels smoked a cigarette, gesticulating furiously at him. As Draco approached, she dropped the smoke and stubbed it out with her foot.

“You talk some sense into him,” she sighed, shaking her head at Potter. “He won’t listen to me.” Draco was glad when she left without making any further comments about Zee.

He perched next to Potter on the blocks, carefully stretching his legs out in front of him in a futile attempt to get comfortable. For a long time, neither said anything. Draco desperately wanted to know why Potter had not only defended him, but became infuriated on his behalf. It wasn’t becoming to ask though, especially when he and Potter were only starting to become friends.

Something was strange about the whole situation when Draco really thought about it. He remembered the way Potter easily joked about being attracted to another man and, one thing leading to another, wondered if Potter could possibly have feelings for him. A grimacing smile stole across his face at the thought. Potter, in love with _him_ of all people? Highly unlikely. Whatever the reason that led Potter to his defense, Draco wasn’t about to complain. He also wasn’t going to hope for more than Potter would be willing to offer. There was a small twinge of resignation in his chest at the thought, but he quashed it immediately. Malfoys didn’t date impulsive scarheads. What would he want with Potter?

“Draco,” Potter said suddenly, taking his head off of his knees. He seemed like he was gearing up for a long explanation. Draco didn’t have the patience for it.

“It’s okay, Potter,” he said, soothingly and convincingly (part of him still was deathly curious at why Potter interfered on his behalf). “You don’t have to say anything.”

For good measure, Draco put his hand on Potter’s knee, expecting Potter to throw him off or mutter something under his breath. However, Potter surprised him by taking Draco’s hand in his own and squeezing it gently. Until Potter’s burning hot palm stole over his, Draco hadn’t realized how cold his own hand was. Even as Potter reduced pressure and only clasped his hand lightly, Draco warmed up quickly. It was nice, sitting there with Potter.

They quietly watched the morning pass by until the hunger in their bellies drove them away from the abandoned parking lot.

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	14. We’ve Not Yet Lost All Our Graces

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Fury was still burning in Harry’s gut two and a half hours after the Zee incident. He’d relaxed marginally while he and Malfoy sat in what could only be described as peaceful silence in the parking lot and was almost back to normal when they finally headed out to find some food before returning to practice. Unfortunately, they returned to the field only to find Zee gloating and Nate with an expression full of resignation.

Harry watched with barely restrained emotion as Nate pulled Malfoy aside to presumably give him bad news while the rest of the team secretly watched as they geared up and stretched.

For once in Harry’s life, he wasn’t annoyed by Malfoy. They joke around with each other, picking ever-so-slightly at old wounds and making fun of them, but that’s all it was in: good fun. Truth be told, Harry enjoyed the banter. They’d always been evenly matched as an opposing pair, but Harry had learned over the last week that they could also synch together rather well. He didn’t want to lose what was building with Malfoy because, in a way, it felt like an actual friendship. The blonde always talked enthusiastically about the grant writing portion of his job, and though Harry wasn’t knowledgeable about the topic, Malfoy managed to make his stories both relatable and interesting, which was a skill Harry always assumed Malfoy didn’t have. He saw how hard Malfoy tried to do good work both with writing and with baseball, and Harry would absolutely be _damned_ if Nate was going to kick him off of the team.

He strained to overhear their conversation, tuning out the team’s chatter as Nate spoke quietly to Malfoy.

“– so sorry, Draco, but you don’t fulfill all the requirements our tenth player has to meet. I’d be fully comfortable letting you sub for any position, but you’re not a pitcher.”

As Nate continued to speak, Malfoy showed no emotion, reacting with cold grace as he nodded in comprehension. Harry caught Nels’ eye and she shook her head slowly, as if she was in a similar state of disbelief.

“I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it at all, seeing how versatile you are and how well you’ve connected with the team, well, _most_ of the team,” Nate corrected himself, “But after it was brought up, my hands were instantly tied. He threatened to report us to the League, Draco. We’d be disqualified.”

Resignation dawned in Malfoy’s eyes, and for one quick second, Harry saw Malfoy’s disappointment and sadness shine through his mask. He could only imagine the thoughts going through Malfoy’s head right now after a lifetime of being rejected for what he wasn’t able to do.

Completely against his will, and with the vague thought that Malfoy was definitely going to kill him, Harry raised his voice and shouted, “Malfoy can pitch! Nate, how could you not see it from his form?”

Malfoy and Nate turned around to stare daggers at him, but Harry defiantly met the eyes of both, barreling ahead anyway as the subconscious part of his brain sighed and wondered how he always got himself into these scrapes. The entire team looked at him in surprise.

“With some coaching, I think he could be really good,” Harry continued defensively, shrugging his shoulders.

Predictably, Zee opened his mouth and went to protest, but Nate silenced him with one sharp look. “Harry has faith in you,” he smiled, doing a quick once over of Malfoy’s body. “And I can almost see what he means. Do you want to give it a go, Draco?” he asked almost excitedly. “Maybe we can make this work.”

As Malfoy thought it over, Harry watched with an increasing feeling of dread. He was almost sure that Malfoy would decline out of desire to save face.

He was surprised, however, as José came jogging up to Malfoy and slapped a baseball into his mitt. “Why don’t you just give it a try, man,” José said casually, taking Malfoy by the elbow. “I was actually going to ask you to try out the mound anyway.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Malfoy said dismissively, pulling his arm away. “As usual, Potter has no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m not sure why you’re playing along, José.”

“You’re starting to sound more and more like a reasonable human being,” Zee said in that blasé tone of his, and Harry increasingly wanted to thump him and Malfoy both.

Betty Lou walked up behind Malfoy and buffed the back of his head, ruffling his shining blonde hair. “You’re sure fucking up your second chance, hon,” she hissed under her breath as Harry wholeheartedly agreed with her sentiment.

“Draco, warm up and get out there on the mound,” Nate ordered. “Until I’ve seen for myself whether or not you can pitch, you’re still on this team.”

With a glare at Nate and a look at Harry that had surely wilted his insides, Malfoy sashayed out onto the field and began playing catch with Nels from his respective place on the mound.

Harry caught José’s eye, and without a second glance they grabbed mitts and another baseball before making their way out onto the field as well.

Once they were out of the rest of the team’s earshot, Harry asked, “Were you really casing Malfoy as a pitcher, or were you just trying to back me up?”

“Both,” said José, tossing the ball lightly to Harry. “He has the demeanor for it, that’s for damn sure.”

Laughing softly, Harry returned the throw. “No doubt about that.”

“Seriously though,” José relented, chucking the ball at Harry’s head. “I’ve noticed his form too, and I have wanted to ask him to pitch, but I thought Nate was going to say something before this shitstorm happened.”

“No fucking kidding,” Harry groused. “I think we all underestimated how much of a bloody wanker Zee is.”

José shook his head. “I can’t even understand him, man. We’ve gone out for drinks and he’s the chillest dude ever, and then he pulls this.”

They moved farther apart then, stretching their arms as Malfoy warmed up with Nels. Betty Lou, Mike, Cale, Chris, and Nat joined them out on the field while Zee judgmentally watched Malfoy from behind the backstop fence.

All too soon, Nate called out to Malfoy to ask if he was ready. Harry saw a lump form in Malfoy’s throat as he nodded yes.

“Shit,” José said suddenly. “He’s going to do something stupid.”

Harry watched José run towards the mound with a growing sense of trepidation in his stomach. Had he made a mistake by putting Malfoy in this position? He had every confidence in Malfoy’s abilities, but he just wasn’t sure if Malfoy had the same amount of faith in himself. Harry ached while realizing he actually wanted to help Malfoy boost his self-esteem.

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Draco stood on the pitching rubber, watching apprehensively as Nels put on her head mask and crouched down behind home plate. This wasn’t the place for him. He was way too close to the batter, for one thing, which meant his reaction times were going to have to be a lot faster than they were when he was playing outfield or even middle infield. Also, how in the bloody fuck was he supposed to pitch? Potter had covered pitching positioning in their sessions, but not actually _how_ one pitches.  

Speaking of Potter, Draco was absolutely not very fond of him in this moment of time. Sure, he was about to get thrown off of the team, and yes, that was a major bummer, but trust Potter to go and volunteer him for the shark tank. Draco had no problem with Potter volunteering _himself_ for these sorts of mad schemes, but this was the first he had been the voluntold victim. He imagined this is what Granger and the Weasel felt like much of the time. Draco wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank Potter or curse his balls off for intervening. Maybe a bit of both was in order, if he even could survive this episode.

As he was about to imitate a windup and chuck the ball into oblivion, José was standing in front of him, blocking his movements. Draco could see Zee pressed right up against the fence, waiting for him to fail. He bit back the bile that rose in his throat and focused on the team pitcher, hoping against hope that he had something useful to contribute.

“Draco,” José said solemnly, “Just put the ball over the plate.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco opened his mouth to say that, yes, he was _trying_ to do that, but José interrupted him again.

“Don’t do a fancy windup or anything. Just take a deep breath and put the ball in the glove. If you think too much, it’s going to be a disaster.”

“That’s comforting,” Draco grumbled, taking José’s advice regardless of how cheesy it was. He needed all the help he could get at this point.

“You’re not breathing,” José reminded him.

Draco muffled his annoyance and focused on breathing. After a number of seconds, he found that his head was clearer and it was somehow easier to block out Zee’s narrowed eyes and Nate’s hopeful expectations.

“Just focus on Nels’ mitt,” José said from behind him, sounding very far away.

Adjusting his cleats on the rubber, Draco struggled to find a comfortable position where he felt balanced.

José coughed behind him. “Angle yourself,” he mumbled, drawing a second rubber in the dirt with his cleat. He put his left foot slightly behind, on the side of the rubber, and slightly angled the right in front of it.

Draco copied him, already more comfortable with the movement. He watched as José slowly completed the rest of the pitching motion and paid attention to how he pivoted his right foot and raised his left leg to generate power that would carry him through the rest of the pitch.

He could hear Zee snorting derisively behind the fence and had to remember to control his breathing. Really, if Potter wanted to beat the snot out of the idiot, now was surely a good a time as any.

Replaying José’s movement in his head, Draco mentally determined what each of his body parts would have to do to get the ball over the plate. Finding a comfortable grip on the laces of the ball was easier than expected, and, after one last deep breath, he was pivoting on his right foot, pulling up his left, and _pushing_ off of the mound to release the ball in a way he hadn’t thought possible before this very moment. The motion was a powerful one, and for the first time in a long time, Draco felt strong.

To his utter astonishment, the ball landed in Nels’ glove with a loud _snap_ , and though it was a little high and outside, most umpires still would have called it a strike. Nels threw it back to him calmly, though behind her mask he could make out a huge grin.

Nobody was speaking. Draco waited a minute to see if anyone was going to, but found himself desperately wanting to throw the ball again. He assumed the position, repeated the motions, and focused harder this time. _Snap_. The pitch was still a little high, having landed inside instead of out.

“Bring it down a little,” instructed José. “Nels!” he shouted. “See how well he can hit the corners.”

Nels gave him thumbs up from behind the plate before relocating her glove into the upper inside corner of the plate. Draco concentrated again, allowing awareness of the rest of his body before honing in on the target. _Snap_. He’d managed to hit the desired height, but the pitch was a couple inches more inside than he would have liked.

“That’ll keep ‘em off your plate,” José grinned. Draco had to agree. He sure as hell didn’t fancy getting hit by a pitch; Potter had shown him how the ball’s lace marks were embedded in his skin after one of José’s screwballs went rogue at a practice the previous week.

The next corner was on the lower inside region of the plate, making it harder for Draco. He definitely found it much more difficult to aim for such a low target. There was the sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind that this would go badly; sure enough, he released the ball too low, and it bounced off the ground in front of Nels as she dropped onto her knees to block it with her body.

“Shit,” Draco muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure how good he was expected to be at this whole pitching thing, but throwing balls into the dirt certainly wasn’t helping his cause.

Nels threw the ball back to him, but before starting another pitch he paced on the mound momentarily to regain his cool. There was already a banana shaped divot forming from where his foot ground into the dirt, so Draco prolonged his break time by filling it in, absentmindedly twirling the ball on his hip and leaving dirt smears on his pants.

His attempt at aiming for the lower outside corner went marginally better (he managed to keep it off the ground this time, though the pitch was still quite low) but he completely nailed the upper outside corner. Nels didn’t even have to move her glove to catch it.

Draco had lost track of what the team was doing and only realized they were still watching him when José interrupted his thought process to suggest trying a changeup.

“You use the circle grip for this one,” José instructed, demonstrating how to hold the ball properly before tossing it back to Draco. “Throw it like a fastball.”

Though the new grip didn’t feel natural or even slightly comfortable, Draco gave it a try regardlessly. He wasn’t really sure what to expect – how could changing one’s grip on the ball make such an intense difference to speed?

The pitch sailed out of his hand, coming off like a fastball and heading right down the middle of the plate before dropping slightly out of the strike zone and landing softly in Nels’ glove. Draco always liked to say that he needed to see something to believe it, but even after executing a perfect pitch that could so seamlessly fool a batter, he was still utterly amazed.

Behind him, the team broke into applause and cheers, Potter’s voice louder and more noticeable than all the rest. José slapped him on the back and congratulated him right as Nate ran up onto the mound and enveloped Draco into a tight hug.

“You’ve got it, kid,” he whispered in Draco’s ear before pulling away. “Sorry I didn’t realize that before all this mess.”

Draco said nothing but gave himself permission to embrace Nate. He recognized the victory here; could see it, smell it, and especially taste it. Zee was still pressed up against the fence, a sour look on his face. Spiting him, and in turn, recognizing his own talent, gave Draco greater satisfaction than any of the times he’d bested Potter back at Hogwarts.

Naturally, Potter was next on the mound and all of his sheepishness from before was totally gone.

“I knew you’d be a great pitcher!” he crowed, green eyes shining with victory.

“Of course, it was all you, Potter,” replied Draco dryly. He turned away from the raving maniac – who he still had absolutely _not_ forgiven – to dust brown dirt from the side of his pants.

“Malfoy, you arse,” said Potter impatiently. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Before Draco could think up a snarky response, he was thrust into a second hug as Potter crashed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Oomph,” Draco coughed weakly. “Control yourself, you great brute.” Unlike Nate’s platonic hug, Draco was vividly aware of his attraction to Potter, which was only made worse as he felt Potter’s back muscles flexing beneath his hands. He took a deep breath, hoping it would have the same calming effects it did upon the mound.

All too soon, Potter released him and Draco was instantly sorry for rushing their contact. That might have very well been the only time Potter touched him and he had to go and ruin it. Already, his euphoria from pitching was starting to lift, leaving him with a hopeless crush on someone he couldn’t have.

Zee sauntered his way out onto the field then, interrupting everyone else who had come to congratulate Draco on a job well done.

"Well this is all fine and good,” Zee said patronizingly, “But we can’t utilize a pitcher who literally has no experience actually pitching in a game situation. Oh wait, he’s never even _been_ in a game.”

“Seriously, man,” scoffed Mike. “What are you getting out of making things difficult for Draco?”

“He just likes being a dick,” Chris offered. Harry high-fived him despite Nate’s narrowed eyes.

“No, no, a _wanker_ ,” supplied Cale, flourishing his hand dramatically. 

“I don’t know about y’all,” said Betty Lou, looking at each of them in turn, “But I can’t take no more of this conflict.”

Nate went to intervene, but Nels beat him to the punch.

“Either shut up or fuck off, Zee,” she said with authority. “No one wants to deal with your shit attitude anymore.”

“Agreed,” said Mike. “You’re ruining the whole team aesthetic.”

Nate sighed. “Look, Zee, we want to keep you around, but we need everyone to support each other in order to function well as a team.”

“If he goes,” said Zee angrily, “Then everything will be fine. I just don’t understand why you insist on having such an inexperienced moron on our team.”

“What’s it going to be?” Nate asked coolly, not backing down.

“Him or me,” Zee said defiantly. “If you’d let me walk away after I’ve been on this team for three goddamn years then I don’t know what I’m doing here in the first place.”

There was a long, awkward silence where no one except Nate met Zee’s eyes. Draco was suddenly wracked with guilt; he’d never meant for the git to actually leave the team. When Potter slipped his hand around Draco’s elbow, he was grateful for the contact as it was strangely comforting.

“Seriously?” burst out Zee after another minute went by. “Even you, José?”

José glanced at the ground as if wishing it would offer him an escape. “We’ve never done things on this team that way,” he muttered. “For reals, bro, Harry only joined the team a few months ago. He wasn’t familiar with baseball either.”

“And yet you gave him a chance,” pointed out Betty Lou. “One you damn well won’t give to Draco.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to any of you,” Zee said cruelly. “Good luck winning games without me.” He started making his way off of the field, shrugging off the team’s stoic glares. “And Nate?” he called from the dugout, one last sneer on his face. “Fuck you.”

They watched in silence as Zee packed up his gear and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving them behind in the dust.

“I’m sure glad that’s over with,” Nate said grimly, turning back to the team. “We’re not going to let that asshole get us down.”

“Too late,” said José.

“Even so,” replied Nate. “Today’s going to be productive regardless. Everyone take your positions and let’s get this practice over with.”

As everyone ran out to their respective position, Draco caught up with Mike. “Oi,” he said awkwardly. “So, about middle infield…”

“Take short,” said Mike without preamble. “I’m better at second anyway.”

“You’re certain?” asked Draco doubtfully.

“One hundred percent,” Mike grinned. “Besides, you have to do a lot more work now.”

Draco gave him a withering glare before jogging over to shortstop and getting into ready position. He absolutely didn’t want to let the team down to the point where they started wishing Zee was back on the team.

As promised, practice was brutal. Draco was terribly sore from throwing and running by the time it was all over, though they had a few days’ break before having to do it all over again. Nate’s end-of-practice motivational speech seemed a little canned, but he wrapped it up early and released them with a plea for them to get excited for the kids tomorrow. Draco didn’t even want to think about coaching after all the drama that morning.

“Let’s get more food,” Potter groaned when they were packed up and ready to head out. “I’ll see you guys at home,” he called to Chris and Cale, apparently not wanting them to tag along. Draco wondered at his behavior.

They walked to Draco’s car and slung the bags into the trunk, Draco rotating his shoulder in circles all the while in a futile effort to work out the pain.

“Are you sore?” Potter asked after the trunk was slammed closed.

“A bit,” Draco grunted, hiding his wince from Potter.

Potter had a habit of moving quickly, it seemed. Before he could react, Potter’s hands were on Draco’s sore shoulder muscles, working diligently to massage out the pain. Somehow Potter had become quite skilled at shoulder massages.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Potter said mildly as he went over a particularly sore area and Draco struggled to keep from yelping in pain.

“How do you figure that, Potter?” Draco managed, sinking down on a curb to allow Potter better access to his back.

“All you’ve done is try your best since you’ve got here,” said Potter simply, as though it was proven fact. “He was a good shortstop, sure, but you have more dedication to the team after a week than he did after three years.”

“Mmm,” agreed Draco, overwhelmed by how much better Potter was making him feel both with his words and hands.

“No one’s going to regret choosing you,” Potter suddenly said. “I know that’s what you’re thinking, and I know they’re not going to regret it.

“And how do you know that?” asked Draco, amused by Potter’s ability to predict the future.

“Cause you really are going to be fantastic at this,” Potter whispered. “I wasn’t nearly as good as you after my first week of hardcore practice. You were made for this sport, Malfoy.”

The massage was stopped as Potter’s arms draped over Draco’s shoulders and hugged him from behind. Unconsciously, Draco leaned back into Potter, tucking his head in the nape of Potter’s neck. They stayed like that for longer than appropriate, and then Potter laughed to ease the tension.

“Besides,” he said. “Zee’s a dick, and you’re not, so even if you fuck something up, they’ll still never regret having you around.”

“Wow, Potter,” Draco said. “I do think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up,” Potter laughed, shoving Draco slightly forward and out of his embrace. “Does your arm feel better?”

“It does,” Draco admitted as he stood up. Before he could talk himself out of it, he added, “You’re good with your hands.”

He wasn’t sure how Potter would react but knew it would be amusing. Sure enough, Potter flushed and changed the subject.

“You’re not going to get another compliment if you starve me to death, Malfoy,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They hopped in the car and Draco got on the highway, letting the wind coming through the open window cool the sweat in his hair, even though it was sure to be a mess later on. Somehow, with Potter by his side, Draco found that he was able to reclaim the euphoria he’d previously only ever felt from pitching. Maybe these challenges were good for him after all. Potter glanced at him then, grinning at his hair blowing madly in the breeze, and Draco finally felt like he was more than just content. It took a minute to recognize the sensation, but he supposed it might be something like happiness.

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	15. One Thing Consists of Consistence

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Happiness was definitely fleeting, Draco decided. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Potter on the baseball field, which could almost be considered normal by now except for the horde of teenage girls that stood surrounding them in a semi-circle.

Thankfully, Potter took the lead with introductions, making marks on their roster as each girl said her name. There was no way he was going to remember all of these names. Just joining the baseball team had been taxing enough for Draco; he could recall faces quite easily but names never seemed to stick, no matter what mnemonics he tried.

“Right,” said Potter after the first of several sure-to-be-awkward moments had passed. “So let’s start out with some simple drills, then. Why don’t you lot make a line down by first base and field some grounders?”

Without any further prompting, the entire team of girls grabbed their mitts and jogged down the baseline. Draco was amazed. He’d never expected such cooperation, especially teenage girls being the way he’d remembered them back in Hogwarts.

The only way he was going to get through this was with a clear head and an open mind.

“Potter,” said Draco, surprising even himself. “I can hit the grounders if you want to go down and make suggestions.”

Potter chuckled. “You’re going to have to talk to them at some point, Malfoy,” he said almost fondly. “But yeah, that works.” Without any more comments, he retrieved the ballpoint pen he’d earlier stuck behind his ear and headed out towards the girls.

The bat felt heavier in his hands than it should have. Maybe it was from sore muscles, but it could have equally been from nerves. He’d only been doing this sport for a week, honestly. What qualified him to coach it?

“Get a move on, Malfoy!” Potter hollered to the girls’ mirth.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. Shouldering the bat in a way that would probably make Nate have an aneurysm should he ever see, Draco tossed the uncomfortably large softball in the air and hit it with a sharp _ting_. Fortunately, Girl #1 (blonde ponytail, tall) was ready and fielded the ball easily, even though it took a nasty bounce off of a stone. Draco could practically recite Potter’s comments about the condition of the city ball fields word for word as he’d adopted the team’s habit of talking shit about every field they ever played on.

Instead of cursing, Potter clapped enthusiastically. “Nice job!” he crowed, giving Draco a smug look. Only that morning, he’d been bragging about how he charmed Danny into giving them only the best softball players. Draco had scoffed at the time and it was still much too early to tell anyhow. With his luck, naturally Potter would be right about the whole thing. Except Draco couldn’t actually be too upset about that – after all, it would be nice to be on the winning team for once.

Girl #1 enthusiastically jogged to the back of the line as Girl #2 stepped forward. She almost reminded Draco of Pansy Parkinson, with a sharp, pug nose and broad shoulders. He decided that he liked her on principle.

“Hit me a hard one!” she shouted from down the baseline. Draco nearly cringed. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was hurt any of these girls. Almost as if she could read his thoughts, Girl #2 called “I can take it!”

Merlin, of course he would have to get put with the sports enthusiasts who went as hard as he and Potter did. Treating them like children wasn’t likely to be beneficial for anyone, Draco reasoned. He tossed another ball in the air, inwardly praying that he actually managed to make contact, and crushed it towards the girl. She reacted instantly, springing off the balls of her feet and catching it in the split second before it hit the ground.

The other girls whooped and cheered, Potter’s voice loud among them, and, unconsciously, Draco felt a smile creep onto his own face. Maybe this was going to be worthwhile, after all.

An hour later, he wasn’t so sure. The basic fielding had gone well, but running plays was an absolute nightmare, as was the base running. Several “pickles” had occurred on the field, but for some reason the girls couldn’t get down how to move in from each position and switch from place to place in order to tag the runner out.

Draco was frustrated and trying to keep on a nice face, but even Potter looked like he was at the end of his rope.

“Malfoy,” he said, taking a long drink of water, “This is useless. Let’s split them. You take the infielders, I’ll take the outfielders, and the pitcher and catcher can warm up a bit.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Draco slowly, wondering how on he was possible going to manage an entire infield full of girls. “Er – Potter, we don’t know what positions they’ll be playing yet.”

Potter shrugged. “They all know whether they want to be infield or outfield. That’s a start. Besides, if they’re versatile, that’s better for the team.”

“Wow, Potter,” said Draco, smirking. “Impressive vocabulary there.”

“Shut up,” said Potter, shoving Draco. “Separate them into middle infield and corner basemen.”

“Basewomen.”

“Bloody hell, you know what I mean, Malfoy!”

For good measure, Draco shoved Potter back before looking up and catching all ten of their players watching the exchange from the dugout, where they were currently on water break.

“You’re a wanker,” he hissed under his breath before striding over to the girls and summoning all of the infielders to follow him out onto the field. Potter claimed the outfielders, directed the pitcher and catcher out to the grass behind the dugout, and obnoxiously strutted down the third baseline, Draco watching him the whole way. Damn Potter and his childish, attractive antics.

Left alone with players for the first time, Draco gulped. He really didn’t want to fuck this up; Potter would have his head.

“Alright,” he said bracingly, addressing the four girls in front of him. “Who wants to be a middle infielder?” Fortunately, only two of the girls raised their hands. “And the rest of you lot want to play corners?” They both nodded. Draco smiled, praising the baseball gods for not creating a situation where the girls would squabble over positioning. Hell, if Potter let him manage the infielders, he would be fine rotating their roles on a game-by-game basis. It wasn’t traditionally done, but as of late Draco hadn’t been much for tradition. And he’d seen it successfully executed in other sporting situations.

It wouldn’t do to call them by numbers, so Draco resigned himself to doing more introductions. “You probably all remember my name,” he said. “But I admit I’ve already forgotten all of yours.”

The girl who he thought looked like Pansy spoke up first. “I’m Melissa.”

“Anna,” said Ponytail Blonde, one of the soon-to-be middle infielders.

“Georgie,” said a dark haired girl with bangs. She was lithe and looked fast; perfect as the other middle infielder.

There was a pause. Draco looked expectantly at the last girl, restraining himself from tapping his foot as she flipped long dreads over her shoulder. “Jada,” she said finally.

“Wonderful,” Draco said, already trying hard to remember their names. “Honestly, I might have to have you lot wear nametags.”

“I mean, there’s only four of us,” said Ponytail – ahem – _Anna_. “If you can remember the plays, you can surely remember our names.”

“We’ll give it a try,” he said to placate her. “As for right now, we might as well go back to basics because that bit before with everyone out on the field was relatively useless.” Frowning, Draco said, “Let’s simply field the ball and throw it to first.”

“You want to go back to _that_ basic?” Melissa asked, dumbfounded. “We’ve been doing that for years. Let’s turn some double plays.”

Draco took a moment before responding, scanning the outfield for Potter. The girls were already fielding pop flies, and even at such a distance, he could tell that Potter was having them work on taking their first step back. Of course any sort of teaching came naturally to Potter. The girls loved him already, what with his messy hair, shining eyes, full arse…Draco pulled himself out of that hole before he sank any further in.

“Soon enough,” he responded dismissively. “Of course I know you can field the ball and execute a decent throw,” Draco huffed as more of the girls looked ready to protest. It made sense that as soon as he worked with some girls on his own, without Potter, things would take a turn for the worse. “There are a few simple facts we have to keep in mind. In order to function together seamlessly, you have to be able to work as a team. That’s not going to happen unless you’re comfortable with each other and can predict how your teammates will react in different situations.”

They seemed a little bit more receptive, so Draco continued. “Also, as my own coach says, mechanics are everything. You need to perfect every individual skill before really succeeding out there on the field.” He paused to draw breath. “And that builds confidence. This sport is mostly mental, remember?”

There was an awkward pause, and then finally Georgie said “Let’s do this” and Draco relaxed for the first time all day.

“Indeed,” he said. “Go ahead and take the field. Work out the positions amongst yourselves.” As they negotiated who went where, Draco retreated to the dugout to grab a bucket of balls and his preferred bat. Impressively, the girls decided their positions with as much ease as he and Mike had yesterday. Potter was right; this was going to be a good group.

“Ready positions!” Draco called, raising the bat to his shoulder again. This time, he didn’t worry about hitting balls his girls couldn’t handle.

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“I got it, I got it!” shouted Iz, the girl Harry was currently scouting as his center fielder. Unfortunately, Ange, another of Harry’s outfielders, wasn’t properly listening and also moved back to catch the ball. With a sickening _crunch_ , they crashed into each other, Ange ricocheting off of the muscular Iz and landing face-first on the ground. Maisie, the last outfielder, covered her mouth as she snickered unabashedly. There was great chemistry between the three girls which had them already comfortable joking around and laughing at each other. Harry was grateful for this connection. It was invaluable on his team and Merlin knew they were going to need it. Especially at this rate.

“Good effort,” Harry said bracingly, shouldering the bat for a moment. “I hope you lot paid attention to that lesson!” he called, raising his voice a bit as the three girls giggled together. “If you have to catch the ball, call it. If you’re not in the best position, let someone else take it; shout their name.”

Slightly chastised, they gave him guilty faces that still had the traces of smiles. Inwardly, Harry sighed. Malfoy’s girls looked much more disciplined out there on the field. He corrected them seriously, but it was obvious that he was fair across the board. Harry could already tell his girls respected him.

“What about the balls that are kind of in-between positions?” asked Ange, the most inexperienced of the three.

“Good question,” Harry said encouragingly. “Whoever’s playing center automatically has priority. If she calls you off, back off, but if she shouts your name, catch the ball.”

“Makes sense,” shrugged Maisie.

“How about we practice hitting our cutoff?” suggested Harry. “Maisie, why don’t you field, Ange, you catch, and Iz, you take the throw. Then after three or so, we’ll switch?”

They complied without protest, and Harry found himself sighing in relief. Coaching alone was definitely stressful. At least with Dumbledore’s Army, his friends were there for support the entire time and he knew they believed in him. But to his surprise, the thought of leading the team with Malfoy did lessen the weight upon his shoulders. Harry surprised himself how much he was coming to rely on the other man, not only as a teammate, but also for friendship, humor, and increasingly (and unfortunately, Harry told himself) wank fantasies.

To take his mind off of Malfoy’s delicious figure, Harry hit the first fly ball out to Maisie, watching as she successfully snagged the ball, firing it to Iz, who in turn threw it to Ange. “Great job!” he hollered. “That’s the way to do it! Now let’s get those throws off faster; you’re losing time!”

He hit two more balls to Maisie, watching proudly as the girls made every effort to transfer the ball quicker and more efficiently. They switched afterward, and in the time it took them to change places, Harry found his attention back on Malfoy. He was currently out at shortstop, demonstrating how to take a pick-off throw. Taryn, the pitcher, and Kelly, the catcher, had joined in for this part of the practice as well, having finished warming up.

Harry smiled as Malfoy yelled “Duck!” and Taryn got down just in time to avoid getting her head taken off by Kelly’s throw. Naturally, Malfoy executed the catch and tag perfectly, and, from Harry’s vantage point, did so in a way that looked effortless. If he hadn’t seen Malfoy’s hard work over the past week with his own eyes, Harry would have said he’d been playing since he was a small child at least.

“Hey! Harry!” shouted Iz from way out in the grass. “Hit me the ball already!” Harry shook himself out of thought and went to start the next rotation.

Practice ended with running and agility drills – Malfoy had refused to budge on agility, and Harry was equally unwilling to budge on running, so the team got stuck doing both sets of exercises.

“You – two – need – to – make up your minds,” panted Taryn after three laps around the outer bounds of the field and four times through the agility track Malfoy set up down all three baselines.

“For reals,” said Ange, shaking her head. The rest the team was bent over in half, gasping in air, though some had recovered enough to gulp down some water.

Malfoy turned to Harry then, giving him a secret smile. This was new. “Potter,” said Malfoy teasingly, “I think pushups should be on the agenda next time. These girls have to be in shape before the season officially starts.”

He played along. “Definitely agree, Malfoy.” Groans of exhausted horror surrounded him. “Conditioning is one of the most important ways to prepare for the season,” Harry protested.

“Along with proper mechanics, agility, and _running_ ,” gasped Melissa.

“When you’re able to cruise down the baseline without a problem,” said Malfoy breezily. “You’ll thank us.” He paused for a moment, studying the tired girls. “What do you say, Potter? Should we let them go home?”

There were cries of “Please!” and “Finally!” coming from all of the girls, and Harry only made them wait another few seconds before giving in.

“We practice again on Tuesday,” he said to very relieved team. “Bring a lot of water because it’s supposed to get hot. Rest.”

“And start doing pushups now,” broke in Malfoy. “Maybe it will hurt less then on Tuesday.”

The girls scattered while they still could, randomly throwing gear into bags before carpooling home.

To break the silence, Harry turned around to grin at Malfoy. “Are we really going to make them do pushups?”

“And sit-ups,” said Malfoy seriously. “Big muscle means more power, you noob.”

Relenting, Harry reached out to clap Malfoy on the back. “Good practice today, Malfoy. You looked like you were doing good out there with those girls.”

“You too, Potter,” said Malfoy, just a little bit hesitantly. He seemed to draw nearer at the touch, which only made Harry want to touch him more. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry asked, purposefully not taking his hand off of Malfoy’s back. He was sweaty and radiated heat into Harry’s hand, but the feeling he got from touching Malfoy was worth some minor discomfort.

Malfoy looked uncomfortable. He broke the spell between them by coughing, and Harry reluctantly drew back his hand. “Never mind, Potter,” he mumbled, no longer making eye contact. “It’s not a problem.”

“That’s right,” said Harry, blocking Malfoy’s way out, “It’s _not_ a problem. Tell me what you need, Malfoy.” Why did the word _need_ just come out of his mouth? Didn’t he mean to say _want_?

“Are you sure?” asked Malfoy hesitantly. “Popular opinion be damned, I don’t actually want to bother you.”

“Unless you want me to coach the next team practice by myself,” Harry said honestly, “I’ll probably say yes.”

At this, Malfoy smiled. “No, I definitely wouldn’t leave you alone for that, Potter. Who knows what those girls would do to you while I was away?”

Harry just shook his head. “Spit it out, Malfoy.”

Malfoy practically whispered his request, and Harry couldn’t hear it. Impatiently, he demanded, “Speak up already.”

“Can I pitch to you?” Malfoy asked, making eye contact with Harry though his face was flushed and his hands seemed to have a slight tremor.

“Of course,” Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Was that all? Why did you even have to ask me that?”

“Potter, I meant, will you stand in the batter’s box and try to hit the damn ball while I pitch it?”

Harry considered. Malfoy was a new pitcher and he’d especially been hugging the inside corner.

“See, I knew you’d have this reaction.”

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, I’m just trying to figure out whether or not I want to have more lace marks on my flesh. You haven’t exactly been pitching that long, you know. What’s it been? A good twenty-four hours now?”

Malfoy turned haughtily away and started impatiently chucking balls into the bucket.

Harry blocked his path, this time grabbing Malfoy’s hands to stop his magic. “Would you bloody stop? For Merlin’s sake, yes. What are you talking about, ‘I knew you’d have this reaction.’ If anything, I would have thought you’d expect me to say yes. You know I’ve been trying to help you get better.”

Again, Malfoy mumbled something too quietly to be audible. Instead of demanding Malfoy to raise his voice, Harry leaned in closer so that his ear was practically right up against Malfoy’s mouth. The git better not shout, because Harry would have his arse.

“I don’t expect you to trust me, Potter. We haven’t been friends for that long yet, and as you know, some marks never go away.” Malfoy’s eyes automatically sought out the Mark on his arm, looking as though he desperately wanted to cover it up lest Harry take notice (it had only been on display for all of their practices, for heaven’s sake).

“Malfoy,” said Harry patiently. “Of course I trust you, you complete tosser. I _have_ to trust you on the field, but I do off the field as well.”

He moved his head a fraction of an inch away from Malfoy’s mouth and thought it might be safe to make eye contact again. Malfoy’s eyes were concentrated in thought and emotion; Harry could only guess at what he was thinking and feeling.

“You’re not lying?”

Harry scoffed. “I’m Saint Potter, remember? I never lie. Now warm your arm up so you don’t kill me right off the bat.”

Malfoy managed a weak smile at his awful pun.

“And I won’t use magic, either,” Harry promised, trying to nudge them back into that easy intimacy they’d had only a moment earlier.

It seemed to work. Before turning away to grab a baseball and start stretching, this time Malfoy clapped his hand on Harry’s back.

All he said was “Thanks,” but Harry could see that to both of them, it meant the world.

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	16. We Ain't Ever Getting Older

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“Come on, Malfoy, I’m not getting any younger out here!”

“It’s really hard to aim without a catcher!”

Potter fixed him with a look letting Draco know that yes, Potter knew he was just making up excuses at this point.

In the end, Potter ended up conjuring a tarp and magically rigging it to the backstop. Draco drew the strike zone in a big rectangle and vowed to stay off the inside corner.

He paced around the mound while Potter loosened up his shoulders swinging their heaviest bat. Draco was unpleasantly aware that not only would Potter be able to see every one of his facial expressions while he pitched, he’d also get to see his body movements as well. And there was a large probability of him doing something embarrassing. He wasn’t well-versed enough in pitching to keep from making mistakes yet.

What was wrong with him? Malfoys simply did not worry about what others thought about them; even tentatively ridiculous love interests who most definitely did not return said interest.

With that lovely fact in mind, Draco drew himself to a ready position on the mound and mentally prepared as Potter stepped into the box. Focusing on the middle outside part of the strike zone, he wound up and released the ball, forcing his muscles to relax.

Potter watched the pitch. Sure enough, it hit the tarp much more outside of the strike zone than Draco would have liked. As Draco snagged a new ball, Potter stepped out of the box and did a couple casual half-swings; Draco watching the way his shoulders rolled and flexed as he rotated.

The next pitch was right down the middle. Potter was on it in an instance, belting it right back at Draco, who immediately flattened himself down to the ground in a frantic attempt to not take a baseball to the face.

“Here’s my first tip,” called a gloating Potter. “Don’t ever throw meatballs.”

“It’s not like I have a ton of control yet,” shouted back Draco, stung.

“Learn some.”

His and Potter’s friendship didn’t mean their rivalry was dead. Draco bristled, determined to strike Potter out. He rosined up, gripped the ball, and released. It was much too far inside, and Potter had to do a strange dance move to avoid getting hit.

“Shit,” Draco muttered under his breath. This is exactly what he feared would happened. Any second now, Potter would accuse Draco of trying to intentionally hit him and then walk off the field.

Instead, all that happened was Potter laughing and calling out, “I know you’re pissed that I hit off of you, but Malfoy, for fuck’s sakes, aim for the bloody corners!”

He decided to take Potter’s advice. The lower outside corner was his first target, and, after five attempts, Draco finally nailed it. Potter fouled off a couple of the balls he’d thrown, but for the most part, the pitches were outside of the strike zone.

The upper outside corner was easier to hit. It only took Draco two balls to nail that one, and he was sure he’d put a strike on Potter in the process.

When it came time to hit the inside corner, Draco tensed up again. In the batter’s box, Potter seemed to sense his struggle.

“Malfoy!” he called. “Would it help if I batted left while you aim for the right side of the plate?”

That wasn’t a terrible idea. Of course, if he happened to go wild and chuck one down the left side of the plate, Potter might have a harder time getting out of the way.

“No, you’re perfectly fine right where you are,” Draco shouted back. There was no room for hesitation. His first attempt hit the left upper corner, but slowly, bit by bit, he moved it from left to right through the upper part of the strike zone. It took him ten pitches to nail the corner.     

Potter had been standing patiently (ready to move at a second’s notice, Draco imagined), but once the pitches got more consistent he would step out, towards third base, and take a hack at the better pitches. Half of them Potter hit, and the other half, Draco put past him.

“Don’t think I didn’t have ulterior motives, agreeing to practice with you,” Potter teased him after they’d finished up an hour later.

“Oh?” said Draco, tastefully raising an eyebrow like the posh boy he’d once been. There was sweat running down his back, and his hair was plastered to his face, but the Slytherin Ice Prince would always be in his back pocket. He had to rely on it now, especially as his traitorous heart longed to hear Potter confess his love for Draco.

Potter laughed. “You can make anything sound filthy when you do that, Malfoy. For your information, I can’t usually hit inside pitches.”

“You’re not serious,” said Draco. Potter had been hitting his just fine.

“It was actually really helpful, watching you. I could see how your motions change slightly when you’re aiming for the inside corner.”

“Glad we could be of assistance to each other,” Draco muttered.

Potter cuffed his shoulder, drawing Draco in for a bro hug. “Come off it, you wanker,” he said, almost fondly. “I’m happy to help whenever you want.”

Draco wondered if he really meant it or if Potter was just having him on. He wasn’t entirely able to erase the sour mood that’d come over him as they cleaned up and went home.

 

They spent the next week practicing with the team, coaching their girls, and doing nightly pitching/batting sessions. Draco’s aim slowly increased, and, even as Potter hit more of his inside pitches, he learned to place them in spots he knew Potter had difficulty with. All in all, they were improving. Potter took each and every opportunity to touch him, and Draco usually couldn’t help but lean into his touch. It was especially awkward if they were in front of the girls at the time, though he had better self-control then. They were already “shipping” their coaches, whatever that meant, and Draco didn’t want to add any fuel to their fire.

Though they spent most of their time on the field together, Draco didn’t usually spend time with Potter outside of practice. They occasionally went running with each other, but other than that, they led pretty separate lives. Of course, baseball took up so much time that their lives were pretty non-existent anyway.

It was Friday night, and for some strange reason, Nate had blessed them with a rare Saturday morning off. Draco and Potter were back at the pitching and hitting grind, making up for the practice they weren’t going to get the following day.

Halfway through, Potter’s phone rang. Draco frowned. They usually didn’t have any interruptions, and Draco treasured every moment of his Potter-time. He willed Potter not to answer the phone.

Instead, Potter swung an imaginary hand up to the home plate umpire and stepped out of the box, facing away from Draco as he answered the call.

Draco could definitely predict what was going to happen next. Whoever was calling certainly had a valid reason for doing so, and they were going to cajole Potter into doing something with whatever excuse they’d come up with. And then Potter was going to choose them over Draco, dipping out on their practice because they were always together anyway so why wouldn’t Potter take the opportunity to see whoever else who surely wanted to spend time with him?

“Oi, Malfoy!” Potter called as he tucked his phone into his back pocket. “Sorry, mate, but we’re going to have to cut tonight short.”

The hurt was already coiling in his gut. Draco pushed it down by masking his emotions in anger. “Potter, I hate to burst your happy bubble, but you are aware that our first game is on Monday? I’m simply not prepared to pitch and will require your services for our usual hour of practice tonight.”

“Malfoy,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “You were born ready. And if you’re going to throw your arm out if you pitch anymore tonight. Don’t think I didn’t watch you sneak away from practice earlier to get some time in with Nels.”

Draco pouted. There wasn’t any other word for it.

“Listen,” Potter said. “We’re due for a night off, yeah? That was Cale on the phone. He and Chris are insisting on pub night.”

“Pub night?”

“Yeah.” Potter rolled his eyes. “Usually it involves us all getting wasted and singing karaoke. It’s fun while it lasts, but the morning hangover is bloody brutal. They used to drag me out for these nights before morning practice, if you can believe that.”

“Sounds like an enlightening experience, Potter.”

“So are you down?”

Draco stared at him in naked disbelief. Potter was inviting him out to pub night?

“Oh, I feel like I should tell you that I don’t use hangover potions the morning after,” Potter smirked.

“Please, Potter,” Draco scoffed, the snark coming naturally. “I’ll match you drink for drink and still come out on top.”

“Oh?” Potter intoned, raising his eyebrow in an uncanny impression of Draco.

“Fuck off,” Draco huffed, blushing against his will.

“Let’s get out of here,” Potter said, chucking baseballs toward the bucket. “We’ve only got a bit to get ready, and somehow I feel like you’re gonna take forever.”

Draco lobbed one of the balls at Potter’s head. “Maybe, but the result is definitely worth the effort.”

“We’ll see, Malfoy,” Potter said, eyes crinkling. Draco took a deep breath and prayed to whatever deity was listening for impeccable self-control at the pub tonight.

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Harry had never actually expected Malfoy to _agree_ to pub night. In their past life, he would have thought going out, getting wasted, and doing shameless karaoke would be far beneath Malfoy. He hadn’t intended to ask Malfoy to go in the first place. But there was something about their new friendship that made him gutsier when usually he would have been more careful. Oh, and there was the small matter of how Malfoy’s face fell when Harry told him he had to leave early.

Not to mention his terrible self-destructive tendency of admiring the aesthetics of Malfoy’s body. Harry loved the way the blonde looked in baseball clothes and sweats, but he was sure that Malfoy dressed up and in his element would be hotter than anything he’d ever seen before.

“I’ll be back at half-six,” Harry told Malfoy as he dropped him off. “If you’re not ready, I’m leaving without you.”

“Potter, you’re wasting my prep time,” Malfoy replied. Harry shook his head as he unlocked the door and disappeared into the apartment.

He didn’t mind chauffeuring Malfoy around, but driving around College Area got to be pretty annoying after a while. Thankfully, the school wasn’t busy during the summer, and so he made it back to his house in record time.

“Time to get wasted!” Cale crowed as Harry walked in the door. He was already pre-gaming with beer, in his natural habitat watching the Cubs face off against the Mariners. On the adjacent sofa, Chris nursed a flask of vodka, nodding at Harry in greeting.

Harry toed off his shoes and flopped down on their rug, stretching out the muscles he hadn’t taken the time to cool down. “I invited Malfoy out with us tonight,” he said casually.

“That’s rad,” said Chris. “It’s about time.”

“Honestly,” Cale snorted. He took a swig of beer.

“Hey, now,” Harry chastised. “I haven’t seen you asking Nate out with us, either.”

Chris muted the game, exchanging furtive glances with Cale.

“What?”

“Cale has a thing for Nate.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You said ‘either.’ That Cale hasn’t asked Nate out ‘either.’ Which implies that you have a thing for Draco.”

“It does _not_ imply that I have a _thing_ for Malfoy!” Harry shouted from the floor, indignant.

Cale and Chris laughed.

“It most certainly does, mate,” Cale said good-naturedly. “You won’t even call him by his first name like the rest of us.”

“Malfoy and I have too much history for that,” Harry said stubbornly.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Chris crowed. “They have ‘too much history,’ Cale.”

“I’d shut up,” Cale advised. “You’re digging a hole, mate.”

“I’m taking a shower,” Harry growled. “You lot better not pull any of this shit tonight.”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean we can’t tease you plenty in the meantime.”

“Let’s lay off, we’ve got him all hot and bothered now.”

Harry pushed himself off of the floor and stormed out of the room, much to Cale’s and Chris’s amusement. And if he did use the brief ten minute shower to rub one out, no one had to be any the wiser, did they?

Cale pounded on the door right as he was about to come. “Uber’s gonna be here in five!”

There was no way Harry was stopping now. But it would take him ages to get back in the right state of mind again, unless…unless he thought of Malfoy stretched out beneath him, eyes soft, body welcoming…

It was embarrassing how quickly the thought put him over the edge. Refusing to dwell on the matter, Harry soaped up in record time and dried off just as the Uber pulled into their driveway. Throwing on what Cale and Chris called his “pub jeans,” he snatched his nicest casual shirt and threw it on as he grabbed his shoes and ran out of the house in just enough time to clamber in the back seat with Chris.

Their driver was female, so his fellow outfielders held their tongues. But Cale turned around and mouthed “have a nice wank?” at him from the front seat, and Harry felt rather than saw his face flushing.

Unsurprisingly, Draco wasn’t anywhere to be found when they pulled up to his apartment, so naturally Harry had to go fetch him. He rang the doorbell for the third time, annoyed.

“Chill the fuck out,” he heard through the door as it was heaved open. “You gave him twenty minutes to get ready. What did you expect?”

Harry took that as an invitation to come in and followed Steve into the living room. “Want a drink?”

“Er – we’ve got to get going.”

“If you nag him, he’s going to move even slower,” Steve said, shrugging, as Harry made towards the closed bathroom door. “Trust me. I know from experience.”

Defeated, Harry followed Steve into the kitchen.

“We’ve got vodka, rum, whiskey…”

“Rum and Coke’s good.”

Steve mixed the drinks, handing one to Harry. As he was about to take a swig, Harry clicked their glasses together. “Cheers, mate.”

They talked about the weather. It would have been more awkward, had he not had a drink in his hand, but the social lubricant actually helped a lot. Harry was over halfway through his rum and Coke – though he was drinking rather quickly – by the time the bathroom door opened.

He turned around, ready to chastise Malfoy, but the insult died on the tip of his tongue. Malfoy was _beautiful_. It was as if Harry was seeing him in slow motion. His black pants were perfectly tailored to accentuate his slim hips and round arse, and the white button down he had on revealed the smooth, supple skin on his chest. Harry was surprised that he had the sleeves rolled up to three-quarters’ length, and if he didn’t know what the Dark Mark was, he’d have even thought of Malfoy’s tattoo as attractive too.

“Let’s go, Potter,” sniffed Malfoy, breaking the spell. “I haven’t got all night.”

Sighing, Harry drained the rest of his drink and tipped an imaginary hat to Steve before striding out the door. In the car, the Uber driver was filing her nails while Cale and Chris were talking baseball, of all things.

“Took you long enough,” groused Cale as Harry opened the door for Malfoy and all but shoved him inside the backseat next to Chris.

“Yeah, well, someone was busy primping.”

“I’ll have you know that I got ready in a perfectly reasonable amount of time!”

Harry watched as Cale and Chris exchanged an amused look and internally sighed. Thank Merlin there was already some alcohol in their systems. He felt grateful, too, for Steve’s rum and coke; since he’d gotten in a nice wank, it wasn’t even making him horny.

Malfoy sat stiffly in the middle seat, arms glued to his side. Taking a chance, Harry slung an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders as their driver pulled onto the freeway.

“So,” he remarked casually. Cale snorted from the front seat, though thankfully Malfoy wasn’t paying attention to him. “What song are you going to sing?”

“Sing?”

“I did mention karaoke, didn’t I?”

“You mentioned getting plonkered, not braying like a bunch of drunken sailors.”

Their Uber driver let out a snort of amusement.

“That’s what pub night’s all about,” Chris chimed in. “Just be grateful we don’t have practice tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, ‘grateful,’” Malfoy complained.

They sat quietly for the rest of the ride there. Harry didn’t move his arm from Malfoy’s shoulders, and, surprisingly, Malfoy didn’t ease out from under him. He was even so daring as to grab Malfoy’s hand and escort him into the bar.

About two drinks in, after countless complaints about their own teams, taking the mickey out of Zee, and speculating how the game was going to go on Monday, Cale announced that it was time for karaoke.

“Me and Chris will go first, all right?” he said, giving Harry a sly look.

“Let’s just get the video camera out first,” Malfoy replied, digging in his pocket for his phone. “I’ll want to have this one hand the next time one of you tossers makes fun of me after practice.”

Unfazed, Chris and Cale stood in line while another male duo belted out the lyrics of one of Harry’s least favorite songs. He tried not to listen, instead paying attention towards Malfoy as he leaned closer.

“Potter,” said Malfoy intently. “What are you? A baritone?”

“Er –” said Harry.

Malfoy sighed. He looked quite pained. “Okay. We’ll figure this out,” he said soothingly, or at least as soothingly as Harry thought he could be.

Chris and Cale were in the process of requesting their song.

“Shit,” Malfoy said. “We’re going to have to go soon, you know.”

Harry looked at him. “Malfoy,” he said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. “You know it’s just pub karaoke, right? We’re really just screwing around.”

Malfoy’s response was to glare at Harry as though he had a few screws loose. “Just tell me this,” he said, as Cale and Chris hopped onstage. “Are you familiar with Rihanna?”

There was just enough time for Harry’s eyebrows to shoot up before the familiar tune of “Stayin’ Alive” rushed over him. Dumbfounded, he and Malfoy watched as Cale and Chris – in true 70s fashion – grooved and sang. They weren’t perfect, but they didn’t have to be. All around them, people were cruising over to the dance floor.

“Let’s go, Potter!” Malfoy cried, dragging Harry along with the mob. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this but wasn’t about to pass up a perfect opportunity to touch Malfoy.

His dance moves had improved since the Yule Ball, but he was initially quite concerned about dancing with Malfoy. Surely he’d had posh dancing lessons as a boy?

Harry needn’t have worried. Malfoy immediately started shaking his hips, doing something vaguely related to the Twist as he snatched Harry’s hands and pulled him into the quick rhythm. He could only hope Chris and Cale were concentrating on their performance rather than on his and Malfoy’s as they whirled around the floor. Malfoy was tireless, it seemed, and had a particular affinity for disco. He would pull corny moves just to see Harry laugh, and then his own eyes would crinkle as he grinned back at Harry across the dance floor.

As the song ended, Harry felt his breathing return to normal, a new sense of calm rushing over him. They exited the floor; Cale and Chris ushering them up onstage for their turn at karaoke.

“Rihanna?” Harry inquired as Malfoy stepped up to make their song selection. He smiled in response, all teeth.

Their disco mentality was entirely gone as their song began. He stood there awkwardly as they waited, trying not to look out at the sea of people who still swarmed the dance floor. Fortunately, Harry recognized Malfoy’s choice immediately. He couldn’t recall the name, but had jammed plenty of times to it on the radio.

As the words flowed across the screen, Harry realized he’d never heard Malfoy sing. He expected Malfoy to be better than decent, at least good; but he was blown away when he realized Malfoy quite literally had the voice of an angel. Caught in rapture, Harry tapped into another part of himself that always seemed to be able to magically synch with Malfoy. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about hitting the high notes, because Malfoy was perfect for those, and could just concentrate on letting their voices blend together. Sometimes he and Malfoy let each other solo briefly; he was almost equally surprised to realize that he could sing rather well. It was something he’d never noticed before.

They were singing Rihanna. Malfoy’s sweet, high voice seemed entirely wrong for her style of music but somehow seemed to repurpose the music into something that suited him and Harry. The crowd raged beneath them, but he only had eyes for Malfoy. As they moved with the music, catching each other’s eye after nailing a particularly powerful part of the song, Harry understood that he was falling in love with the blonde pointy git.

The song ended. The crowd was cheering; Cale and Chris admitting defeat, and still Harry only had eyes for Malfoy.

Malfoy looked at Harry, glowing from their successful performance, and Harry could see his pride and elation shining through.

He wasn’t able to describe the feeling that filled his entire body; instead, Harry delicately cupped Malfoy’s face and gently kissed him.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [inspiration](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35o59UA4oBc) <3.


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